


Sense & A Total Lack Thereof

by WardsAreFunctioning



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Jane Austen Fusion, F/M, References to Jane Austen, Sense and Sensibility - Freeform, Siblings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2019-10-02 14:12:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17265629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WardsAreFunctioning/pseuds/WardsAreFunctioning
Summary: A widow and her three children head north after a sudden shift in fortunes. A combination of Sense & Sensibility and Dragon Age 2. Marianne and Elinor Hawke are the Dashwood sisters, with the rest of the cast filling various roles.Note: This is a re-write of a work I took down last spring, with the same title.





	1. Varric

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Note** : This is the same Dragon Age worldstate as the one in [Under Good Regulation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8351560/chapters/19132501), my DA:I and Pride & Prejudice crossover. I'd hesitate to call it a prequel, as it focuses on a different set of characters (the DA2 gang). However, the Varric and Hawke in UGR are the same as the Varric and Hawke in this story. 
> 
> Obviously, we'll be seeing more than just Bianca & Varric. I'll be adding relationship tags as I go!

 

 **Grand Cleric Elthina:** “Maybe you can talk some sense into him.”  
**Hawke:** “I don’t think ‘sense’ is really my strong suit.”  
_\-- Dragon Age II_

 

**9:31 Dragon**

Varric escaped from the halls of the Merchant’s Guild, one hand wiping the sweat off the back of his neck. The windowless building always overheated when it got crowded, but summer months were the roughest. This week’s meeting had gone over by an hour. As far as Varric was concerned, Andraste herself should’ve made a meeting running so long a crime punishable by death. Forget spreading the Chant; _that_ was the sort of cause that people could really rally behind.

He tried to shake the tension out of his shoulders and wondered for the hundredth time why he had to represent House Tethras to the Guild. Bartrand was the damned deshyr. _He_ controlled their coin. Let _him_ deal with the sycophants down at the Guild for once.

Then he imagined what would happen if Bartrand actually showed up at one of these meetings.

The vision ended with them both lying dead by the docks.

 _Ah,_ he thought to himself dryly. _That’s right. Because my brother is suddenly the world’s biggest idiot._

He wasn’t sure what exactly had changed in the three years since their mother’s death, but somehow Bartrand had gone from a ruthless yet effective asshole who at least kept the bills paid, to an ineffective asshole who thought every problem could be solved by yelling at it. Once upon a time, Bartrand had been considered a prodigy--one of the most promising young members of the Guild. By the time Varric was ten and Bartrand was seventeen, his aggressive tactics had doubled their family fortune through trade alone.

Now, some twenty years later, Bartrand had all but lost it the same way. Varric rubbed his nose. He wondered if he could get a hand on his brother’s books. He had a pretty fair mind for numbers himself--maybe he could at least _try_ to balance them--

“My, my,” a high feminine voice called out, startling him. _“You_ seemed eager to leave today.” He turned to see a dwarven blonde standing across the square, her silhouette darkened by the shadow of a gaudy Paragon statue. He couldn’t see her face clearly, but he would bet her cold blue eyes were as hard as nails. Her white teeth flashed in the shadows. “Let me guess. Appointment at the Blooming Rose?”

Varric tried not to grimace and mostly succeeded. He noted that the street was deserted--the other Guild members were still mingling in that oven they called a room. Given what she probably wanted to discuss, he found himself half-wishing there were a couple of witnesses around.

“Ice Queen,” he said, resigned to his fate. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Dusana Helmi raised one tidy eyebrow. “Ancestors be praised,” she drawled. “He can talk.”

“That’s gotta be a first,” he said. “Usually people thank the ancestors when I finally shut up.”

She chuckled, sauntering forward. “I was worried,” she said. “You were so quiet during the meeting, I thought maybe Elman Oreson cut out your tongue for folding on that trade deal yesterday.” She smiled, stretching her thin, red lips wide. “Which would save _me_ the trouble of dealing with you.”

“If you’re in the market for cutting out tongues, may I recommend Bartrand’s?” Varric suggested. “He’s the one who jumped into your lyrium smuggling ring--oh, sorry, I mean _trade deal--_ headfirst without telling me.” He gestured at the buildings behind him “I’m sure you can find him wagging it at one of Hightown’s fine drinking establishments.”

“I’ll pass. Personally, I prefer coin to tongues.” Her blue eyes watched him carefully. He wondered if she practiced not blinking in the mirror, or if it came naturally with being born to a family of snakes. “And tragically,” she sighed, studying her fingernails, “I’m about to lose a _lot_ of coin, because some adorably naive Cloudgazer decided the lyrium market is beneath him.”

“That’s a matter of perspective,” Varric replied. “I’d say you’re about to lose a lot of coin because Elman has nugs for brains and went to Bartrand with his offer instead of coming to me.”

“How foolish of him,” she agreed, her tone heavy with sarcasm. “Going to the actual deshyr of House Tethras--the one who controls the books--instead of his Stone-blind baby brother who secretly hates the Guild.”

Varric snorted. _“Secretly.”_

She paced, placing her hands behind her back. “But… maybe we can work something out. I’m sure I could be _persuaded_ to forget this whole thing ever happened. For a price.”

“I’ll bite,” he said. “How much?”

“30 gold,” she replied.

Varric winced. He and Bartrand could afford it, but they’d have to withdraw from the caravan deal they’d been working on for the last four months. The Deep Roads expedition would need to be postponed by another six months, at least. That was a lot of work down the drain.

Still, it was better than having the Carta breathing down their necks. Or worse, being the weakest link in a chain of lyrium smugglers.

He blew out his cheeks as he exhaled. Bartrand had once again tried to dig them out of a hole and only put them in deeper. Varric really needed to find another source of coin for the expedition before Bartrand got fed up and went down there unsupervised.

“20 gold,” he countered.

“28.”

“24.”

“26.”

“25. And that’s my final offer, Ice Queen, so I’d take it if I were you.”

She tapped her elbow a few times, thinking. “Fine,” she said at last. “It’s a deal. I’ll swing by your place later and we can square everything up. You still live above that bar in Lowtown, right?”

“I have plans tonight,” Varric said vaguely. “Besides, I need to loosen up the gold to pay you. Let’s meet here tomorrow.” Void take the whole Guild if they thought they could start coming to see him at the Hanged Man about business. Half the reason he stayed there was to keep them at an arm’s length. “One hour after midday.”

Dusana smiled. “It’s a date.”

“What about Elman?” Varric asked. “Seeing as you’ve got me all worried about my tongue.”

“I’ll deal with him,” she said simply.

Varric believed her. Dusana was terrifying when she wanted to be; for once, he was grateful of that fact. Losing money was never one of his favorite pastimes, but this slip-up of Bartrand’s could have been far more painful if Elman or one of the other Helmi sisters had found him first. Sure, Dusana was a bit of a sadist, but she didn’t commit crimes of passion. He’d rather be broke than lying in a pool of his own blood.

“Glad to hear it. Pleasure doing business with you, as always,” he said with a slight bow. He turned to walk away, washing his hands of Guild business for the rest of the day. He had a few business matters to tie up, and then Thrask was meeting him for a drink in his room. The templar, who was part of his weekly Wicked Grace game, had mentioned he had something to discuss.

“You know,” Dusana called after him, interrupting his thoughts. He turned, looking back at her. “House Tethras finds itself in these little messes _so often_ these days.”

“Yeah. I'm sure that keeps you up at night.”

She seemed to find something about his tone entertaining. “I can’t help but think how much you’d benefit from joining a powerful clan like Helmi. A little political, perhaps, but marriages have worked with less.”

Varric let out a startled laugh at the idea that Dusana would even consider marrying his brother. She had to be toying with him, for some reason. Whatever honor House Tethras had briefly reclaimed on the surface was tattered in the wind now, thanks both to their financial woes and to Bartrand’s very public, disastrous engagement to Raella Dace.

“Are you asking for my blessing?” he asked. “Be my guest. I’m sure my brother will make a lovely groom, if you manage to convince him to bathe first.”

Her voice dropped lower and she batted her eyelashes. “Oh, I wasn’t talking about _Bartrand.”_

Varric blinked. He was confused by the coy look in her eye. Clearly she was trying to goad him, but he had no idea why.

Whatever she was playing at, she obviously wasn't serious about the match. Not only was he a Tethras--he was a second son, one whose greatest accomplishment to date was writing a handful of novels that blatantly insulted half the dwarven families in Kirkwall. He had a literal list in his desk drawer about the numerous reasons why he’d be a terrible match for any girl from a good kalna family, written by a man who would know.

“I’m flattered,” he told her. “But to be honest, Duse, I’d rather marry a bronto.”

Dusana laughed and _tsk_ ed twice. “Heartbreaker.”

“I’m pretty sure you’d have to _have_ a heart for me to break it.”

“Did I hit a nerve? I did, didn’t I? Is this about the Davri girl?”

“Bianca?” He rolled his eyes. “Please. I haven’t seen her in years,” he lied easily. “Besides, I really don’t need an excuse to find the thought of marrying you repulsive.”

Dusana pursed her lips in confusion. Suddenly, her eyes widened, astonished. It was a surprisingly innocent expression on her. _“Oh,”_ she said. Her lips began to curl into a slow, maddening smile. “Varric, you poor thing. _You don’t know.”_

Now he was truly lost. “What in the Void are you talking about?” he asked.

“News from the South. Just came in yesterday.” She paused, lifting her chin dramatically. “House Vasca and House Davri have officially joined by marriage. Isn’t that wonderful?”

He froze. She met his gaze steadily, that cruel smile fixed onto her face.

She wasn't bluffing.

Varric let out a breath. He struggled to remind himself that he knew this was coming--that he'd known for three damn years. Somehow, he'd fooled himself into thinking that knowing would make it less painful when it happened.

He should have guessed. He should have realized. There hadn't been a letter in months now, and the last time that had happened--

_You promise? she’d asked._

_He’d linked his fingers through hers. I promise._

Varric looked through Dusana, barely registering her presence. For a moment, he didn’t even care that she had the upper hand. He couldn’t help but ask. “When?”

“Last week,” she said. “Somewhere in Orlais, apparently. About time, too. Three years is an awful long engagement, don't you think? Though… I suppose that's what happens when the bride doesn't show up the first time around.” Her voice dripped with fake honey. “I’m _so_ sorry. I just assumed someone would have told you by now.” He tried to think of a pithy response, but ended up looking down, his brow lowered. She let out a quiet laugh, and it echoed on the stone walls. “I would pass your blessings on to Bogdan next time I see him, but-- _well.”_ He heard her recede back into the shadows, her boots clicking as she left. “See you tomorrow, Varric.”

A door opened, and a door closed.

Alone in the sunlight, Varric let his eyes fall shut.

“Shit,” he muttered.

 

~~

 

**9:29 Dragon**

 

The first wedding was supposed to take place in Ostwick.

Instead, the bride showed up at Varric’s door, hours before dawn, a cloak pulled tight around her face. Idiot that he was, he let her in. He admonished her for coming, called her a lunatic, asked if she had a death wish, and told her that they needed to stop being so reckless.

She ignored every word. Instead, she dragged him across the room, toward his bed. His ire began to fade when she cupped his cheek and gave him a soft kiss.

Varric forced himself to pull back. “One of these days, the Guild’s going to catch you,” he warned her.

“Doubt it,” she murmured, sliding off her cloak. Her confidence made him a little delirious. It always did. This whole affair was crazy, and he knew better. The Guild was powerful. No one could defy them so often, so flippantly, and get away with it.

But somehow, Bianca did.

As he faltered, she kissed him again, this time slowly, guiding his lips open. The familiar taste of smoke and cider--the press of her body against his--the touch of fingers at his hip, pulling his shirt up--it all made him groan into her mouth. He followed her down onto the mattress, admitting he wanted this as much as she did. It had been a long eight months since they'd seen each other last, and when it came to Bianca, he was a weak man.

Afterwards, she held him, his head resting against her bare chest as she gently played with his hair.  

“So. Was that hello or goodbye?” Varric asked.

“I don’t know. Both?” They fell silent. He listened to her breathe, the warmth of it brushing the top of his head. “I can't stay.” She worked her fingers through a knot, loosening the strands until they were smooth. “You know, every time I see you, I wonder if it'll be the last.”

“Well, you're not helping my odds of survival by showing up unannounced,” he replied, a little gruffly. “What if I had someone from the Guild in here? Or Bartrand?”

“Bartrand?” Bianca scoffed. “Here? Not a chance.” That much was true, he allowed. “And I meant I’m just waiting for the day when you wise up and tell me never to come back.”

He shifted his head to look up at her, surprised. “Bianca. You know that’s not gonna happen.” She frowned. He took her free hand in his, pressing his lips against her fingers. “I'm serious. For better or worse, you’re stuck with me. Sorry. I know I’m a pain in the ass, but that’s just the way I operate.”

“Varric--,” she began. He pulled himself up for a kiss, stealing her response.

“I love you,” he said. “That’s not changing any time soon.”

“Varric,” she repeated, a catch in her throat. Her dark eyes searched his. “You don’t understand. Someday, I really am going to have to marry him. Otherwise, my work--everything I’ve done--it will all be finished.”

The thought of Bianca having a life with someone else made his chest ache, but he wasn’t naive. “I know,” he said, propping himself above her with his elbow. “As I said, I’m not going anywhere.”

Bianca didn't look convinced. “You probably should.”

“Come on. What’ll change when you marry him?” She was silent, her gaze slipping away. “We already lie to everyone. We sneak around, we barely see each other. Both of us know that if we screw up once, there’d be consequences. _Really_ bad consequences. But we keep doing this. I keep writing to you, and you keep showing up. You really think adding a husband to this crazy pile of bullshit is gonna tip the scales?”

Bianca looked away. “I don’t know,” she said.

“You’re making it complicated,” he told her.

“That’s because it is complicated, you big dolt,” she replied, softly, without heat.

“None of this is new,” Varric said. “You've been engaged since they caught us last year.” They'd been on the boat already, halfway to Antiva. Then the captain realized that they matched the description on the posters. No one who ferried goods for a living liked to cross the Guild. “What did you think would happen?”

“I don’t know,” she said again, this time almost angrily. Her eyes squeezed shut. She swallowed, then looked back up at him. “I guess I thought that, somehow, someday, I could… do something. Make it work. Make us work, in a way that wasn’t….” She gestured around his dark bedroom, and then to each of them. _“This.”_

“You can’t fix everything, Bianca,” he said. Pain flickered in her eyes and he gave her a hard stare. “No. _No._ That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

“But it’s true,” she said. “Know what I’d call a design that took this much effort to even function? A broken mess. I'd toss it. It's what any sane person would do.”

Varric touched her chin. “Hey. Look at me.” In the shadow of the night, he thought he caught the shimmer of wetness in her eyes. His heart broke. He would do anything to make those tears disappear. “Hey,” he said again. “Have I ever told you the tale of King Gherlen the Blood-Risen’s throne room?”

Bianca parted her lips, her eyebrows climbing. She laughed, more out of surprise than humor, but it was a start. “Really?” she asked dryly.

“Really,” he insisted.

“You’re going to tell me an old dwarven story _now.”_

Varric let a cocky grin be his answer.

She looked for a moment like she’d tell him off, but then her expression became fond. “Fine. No. You haven’t.”

He lay on his back beside her, shifting to settle their bodies. She shuffled down, pressing her ear to his chest. She’d told him once that she liked to feel his voice rumble when he spoke.

“So,” he began, pitching his voice low, “old Gherlen lived in Orzammar before the First Blight. He was born casteless, but he was determined to make a name for himself. After spending years underground without much success, he went to the surface to find glory. Gherlen wandered to every corner of Thedas in search of adventure. Humans loved him. Elves adored him. Surface dwarves called him brother. And animals approached him as if he’d tamed them by thought alone. He traded stories with the Avvar, studied magical theories with the Magisters, and hunted legendary game with the Dalish.”

“The Dalish?” Bianca murmured against him, amused. “I thought this was before the First Blight.”

“It was,” Varric said, frowning. “Okay. Not the Dalish, then. The elven clans. Whatever they were called before the Dales.”

“There were elvish clans before the Dales?” She peered up at him. “Are you sure?”

“Of course there were.”

She narrowed her eyes and made a doubtful hum. “I’m beginning to think you’re making this up as you go.”

Varric ignored her. “Gherlen impressed people. He saved entire villages from bandit attacks single-handedly. He gave all the gold he earned back to the poor. Once, he even killed a _dragon.”_

“With the help of those infamous time-travelling Dalish elves, I’m sure.”

Varric gave her a hard look. She laughed into his chest. He continued, “Tales of his good deeds reached Orzammar, and the city was in awe. When he returned, decades later, they welcomed him home with open arms and made him king.”

“This part I remember,” Bianca said. “He became a Paragon. The only Paragon who's ever been topside.”

“See? I'm not making it up.”

“You’re not making _all_ of it up,” she admitted. She frowned. “How do you even know a Paragon morality tale, anyway?”

“No matter what your dad says, I was raised a good kalna kid,” he reminded her.

“Oh, really?” she asked. “A good kalna kid wrote _The Viper’s Nest?”_

“I didn't say I stayed one. _Anyway,_ Gherlen married into one of the noble houses, and eventually he had a daughter. She was his only child, and he adored her. The day came when he needed to find her a suitable husband. _‘Bring every eligible man in the city to my throne room ,_ ’ he told his servants.

“Now, the people of Orzammar were extremely curious about this throne room. Other than a few servants, no one had ever seen it, not even his wife. He built it when he returned from the surface, and every evening, just after dinner, he spent an hour locked inside. He always came out with a smile. The rumor was that the throne room was where he kept his greatest treasure. Some said it was a throne made of Ironbark, stolen from Arlathan. Others insisted it was a jewel the size of a man’s fist. A few people thought it was the massive skull of the dragon he’d slain.”

“It’s a lover, isn’t it?” Bianca guessed.

Varric shot her a wounded look. “Really? A secret lover hidden away in a locked room? You know I don't do cliches.”

“Aha!” she said smugly. “So you _are_ making this up as you go.”

“Enough with the commentary,” he complained, mock-covering her wide grin with his hand. “That evening, dozens of people showed up at the entrance to the throne room. Most of them were noble. There was one commoner--a casteless man who’d read human books and traded with the surfacers. The noblemen laughed at him for even showing up, but he stayed silent.

“The servants led them up a long staircase, a thousand steps high, before they finally reached the room. The men were shocked. It was huge, sure, but it was almost empty. Even worse, there was a hole in the wall. They were so far above Orzammar that they could see the sky.

“Most of the nobles fled immediately, worried they’d be touched by the sunlight. The three who remained--the commoner and two others-- steeled themselves. The two nobles murmured questions to each other. Was the king crazy? Did he know about the hole? Was this some sort of test?

“Finally, one stepped forward. _‘ My king,’_ he said. _‘I understand your purpose. You want your son-in-law to prove he is brave. You’ve placed this hole here so that we must face the surface as you have in order to prove ourselves worthy.’_ The king glared down at him and ordered the servants to take him away, which they did.

“Once his shouts of protest faded, the next man stepped forward. _‘My king,’_ he said. _‘I understand your purpose. You want your son-in-law to prove he is as pure as you. You’ve placed this hole here so that we can show we will retain our stone-sense, even when touched by the sun, as you have.’_ The king glared down at him and ordered him out, too.

“Finally, the commoner stepped forward. He looked at the hole, more curious than scared. Amazed, the commoner saw a sunset for the first time in his life. He admired it, then turned back to Gherlen. And he said, _‘Nice window.’ ”_

Bianca let the words sink in. “Cute,” she said. “So the commoner got the princess?”

“The commoner got the princess,” Varric said.

Bianca’s smile turned indulgent. “I thought you said you didn't do cliches.”

He shrugged. “I lied.”

She traced his broad shoulders thoughtfully with her fingers, glancing up at him. “Aren’t you going to tell me the moral of the story?”

Varric looked down at her. He could see the blue rings around her irises, as deeply blue as the lake at twilight, and a pang echoed in his chest. His room was growing brighter. They were running out of time.

“The nobles thought the hole in the wall was a bad thing, a curse,” he told her. “It went against everything they were raised to believe. Not Gherlen, though. To him, it was a tiny glimpse at something beautiful, something he wanted. Something that he wasn't supposed to have. Something he loved.” Bianca’s smile faded, her expression growing sad. “What we have isn’t broken, Bianca. Everything else is broken, but you…. You’re the only thing that makes sense to me. Just… come back when you can.” He pulled her closer, looking into her eyes. “Whatever happens, I’ll be here. Waiting for you.”

She took a shuddering breath. “But when I’m married, the Guild could--”

“Fuck the Guild,” he said, pressing his lips against hers.

She broke the kiss. “What about you? And your life? Your friends? You’d never be able to talk about me. Not to anyone.” She said it like she was rejecting the idea, but he could hear the plea beneath the words.

“If that's what it takes,” he said. Not like he had that many friends, anyway--not the kind you really talked to.

She pulled him back, and her eyes met his, bluer now than ever. “You promise?” she asked.

He linked his fingers through hers. “I promise.”

Bianca slid her free hand to the back of his head and pulled herself up, kissing him like she could drink him in. He could feel her fingers twist in his hair. He used his own hand to tip her face up further, wishing he could memorize every detail of this moment--the taste of her, the feel of her calloused fingers against his scalp, the softness of her lips. The lingering scent of the sea.

He knew it would all be over far too soon.

When they parted, Bianca looked more like herself, a quirk to her lips and an arc to her brow. “You big dolt,” she said, the tremor not quite gone from her voice. “Five gold says you won’t be able to stop yourself from putting that window story in one of your damn books.”

He laughed quietly, rubbing his nose against hers. “Never. That one’s all yours.”

 

~~

 

When three hired thugs broke down his door an hour later, Varric was alone, eating breakfast at his table, a book propped open beside him.

“We're here for Bianca,” one of them demanded in a low growl.

Varric swallowed the toast in his mouth. He lifted the crossbow from his lap, already cocked, and aimed. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

 

~~

 

**9:31 Dragon**

 

Distant voices echoed against the stone walls of Hightown. Varric came back to the present. He shook his head, clearing it. It was already late afternoon, and he had work to do. He was supposed to follow up on a lead from Lirene about some guy who might have maps of the Deep Roads, for the expedition. And then there were the caravan people to deal with. Cancelling that would be a pain in the ass. He had a pile of letters waiting back in his room, including a few notes from his editor. And then there was that drink with Thrask.

Life went on. That was one thing Varric always believed.

He regretted that he’d been so obvious in front of Dusana--more because she seemed to enjoy it so much than it being an actual threat. The Guild was well aware he still carried a torch. They just didn't know it was mutual. Well, other than a few Davris who apparently had a fondness for the Crows, but it wasn't like _they_ were overeager for that information to get out. Varric had built it in as part of their cover, telling her that it would explain the crossbow--which he refused to rename--and keep everyone from becoming too suspicious. He didn’t tell her that it would also keep her safer. If his letters were discovered or they were caught meeting, he could always play it off as one-sided. Then there was a good chance the Guild would just have him killed instead of the both of them. And he knew the world could probably spare a Varric Tethras more easily than it could a Bianca Davri.

As he wandered toward Lowtown, he realized that most of his business could wait. With Bartrand squandering money left and right on bullshit lyrium deals, they wouldn’t need the maps for a while yet. Plus, the letters could sit until he was less preoccupied. If he freed up his time, maybe he could work on writing instead.

He changed directions, heading to the Hanged Man. Already, he was beginning to form the next chapter of his unnamed templar serial in his mind. Writing always made him feel a little less lost when life threw him a curveball. No matter what happened with Bartrand, or the Guild, or Bianca, he could control the twists and turns of his own stories, and no one could take that away from him.  

Hopefully, Thrask would be able to provide him with some good stories once they’d finished discussing Thrask’s news. Varric’s steps grew lighter, and he put his hands in his pockets. He wondered if the character writing the anonymous notes to his templar hero should turn out to be the evil magister, or the templar’s own Knight-Commander. Either way, he had choices.

Varric grinned. Knight-Captain Brennokovic was in for a busy night.

 

~~

 

“I _am_ sorry,” Thrask said, looking a little confused. Varric rubbed the point between his eyes. Thrask had just asked Varric to put a hold on the templar serial until things at the Gallows were a little less tense; Varric knew he was overreacting to the news. “It’s just that the Knight-Commander has been cracking down. I’d rather keep my head low for a while.”

Varric thought of the Guild and winced. For a brief moment, he wondered what trajectory his life would be on if he’d had Thrask’s instincts when it came to publishing _The Viper’s Nest._ He sighed. “Don’t worry about it. Believe it or not, I know the feeling.”

“There’s more,” Thrask said. “I’ve… had some expenses come up that I wasn’t expecting, so I’m taking on a few extra shifts. One of them’s Thursday evenings.”

“So you won’t be making the Wicked Grace game, either,” Varric said wearily. _Maferath’s balls,_ this day was shaping up to be a blow to the gut.

“Not for a little while,” Thrask replied. He look concerned, his thick brow lowered. “I truly am sorry about the serial, Varric.”

Varric gave Thrask a sympathetic glance. “I think you’re getting the shorter end of the stick here, ser knight.”

“But--”

Waving off Thrask’s concern, Varric shook his head. “I’ll figure something out.” He huffed. “Maybe I’ll write a _mage_ serial. That’d serve Meredith Stannard right for taking you off the table.”

“I don’t think the Chantry would be too pleased with a mage serial.”

“Like the Chantry reads my drabble,” Varric chuckled.

“They wouldn’t need to _read_ it to disapprove.”

He winced. “That does sound like them. Not to mention that I’d have to go through you guys to even talk to a mage, wouldn’t I?”

Thrask studied the back of his hand with marked interest before meeting Varric’s gaze. “Well. Not all mages are in the Circle, you know,” he said slowly.

Varric stared at Thrask in disbelief. Even after two years, his templar friend managed to surprise him sometimes. “Are you seriously suggesting I write a serial about an _apostate hero?”_ Thrask shrugged, looking away. “So, what, you’ll track one down for me, and then I’ll interrogate them until it’s time for you to knock them on the head and drag them back to the Gallows?”

“We could do it that way,” Thrask said, leaning back. He lowered his voice, even though they were safe behind Varric’s heavy door. “Or… you could ask around Lowtown about a Ferelden girl named Hawke.”

“Hawke,” Varric repeated.

“That’s right. Gamlen Amell’s niece. A refugee. Her family’s been living with with him since they fled the Blight.”

“Gamlen Amell?” Varric scratched his chin, placing the name. A rotten game of Wicked Grace more than a decade old resurfaced in his mind. “Andraste’s ass. Gamlen Amell. I haven’t thought of that son of a bitch in ages.” He looked back at Thrask. “Not an impressive pedigree.”

“Like you’re one to talk.”

Varric sputtered a laugh into his ale. “Right. Good point. How’d you hear of her, anyway?”

“Not through the Order--through my Darktown contacts. She’s been involved in a couple of pretty impressive jobs. She runs with Meeran’s crowd right now, but she’s trying to get out.”

“I don’t blame her,” Varric said. “Meeran’s as stupid as he is ugly.” He tilted his head. “And if the rest of the Order doesn’t know about her, why aren’t you out chasing her down with your mighty sword, ser knight?”

“From what I’ve heard, it’s not worth the effort. She’s fierce. Killed twelve Coterie men by herself in a street fight, once.” Varric let out a low whistle as Thrask nodded his agreement. “Figure I’m not much help to the Order dead, am I? Besides, the rumor is that she’s got a kind heart. Lets innocents go. Takes down gangs for free when they’re harassing folks on the street. I don’t see the harm in letting her run around a little longer, if I can. Kirkwall could do with some vigilantes.”

“A kind heart and working for Meeran?” Varric asked doubtfully.

“She needs the money. She’s got a family, and you know what it’s like in this town. No one reputable wants to hire a refugee.”

Varric strummed his fingers. “Well,” he mused. “If she’s desperate for money, maybe she’d be interested in the Deep Roads expedition Bartrand is planning.”

“That’s still happening?” Thrask asked, surprised.

“Yeah,” Varric sighed. “Supposedly. At the rate Bartrand blows through gold, not until the next age, though.” He held up his tankard in a salute. “Thanks for the heads up. I’ll make sure she hears about it and see what happens.”

Thrask held up his own and drained it. Then he slid it across Varric’s table. “Come on, then,” he said after a burp. “Call the barmaid back up. You’re buying, after all.”

Varric was only half done with his drink, but he obliged. From the sounds of it, he wasn’t the only one having the world’s shittiest day. “As you say, ser knight,” he said, reaching across the table to ring a bell.

 

~~

 

Several hours later, Varric helped a stumbling Ser Thrask back to the ferry. The sun was only starting to set, but a drunk man in daylight hardly earned them a second glance in Lowtown.

“Easy, easy,” Varric said as they reached the dock, pulling his friend back from the lake. At his height, he didn’t exactly have the leverage to carry a full-grown human if something went wrong, and he was a lousy swimmer. The ferry hadn’t arrived yet. He pushed Thrask into a sitting position on the steps, placing himself beside him. “I’ll wait with you.” A man that drunk alone with a body of water was just a disaster waiting to happen.

“Varric,” Thrask said, his voice thick. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” he said.

“Something I’ve always been curious about,” Thrask said, hiccuping as he leaned back against the stairs. “Why Bianca?”

Varric froze. “What?”

“Your crossbow,” Thrask said. “Why name it _Bianca?”_

For a moment, Varric didn’t move. Then he put his head in his hands, letting out a bitter laugh. “I shit you not, this day is gonna kill me,” he muttered to himself. He swallowed before he looked up at his friend, who was watching him with glassy eyes. “Sorry, ser knight. Can't tell you that one.”

“Why not?” Thrask asked.

“It’s a long story,” Varric explained. After a moment, he added, “There was a girl. And I made a promise.”

Thrask was silent for a few moments. He nodded. “I have one of those, too,” he said in a deep tone. Varric raised an eyebrow, but before he could ask if Thrask meant a girl, a promise, or a crossbow, the ferry came close enough to dock, and the two of them stood.

Varric helped Thrask into the boat, earning himself a glare from the ferryman. As if a member of the Order would never imbibe too much alcohol without the help of a dwarf. He ignored the look and wished Thrask a safe trip back. As the ferry pulled away, bobbing gently in the water, Varric’s gaze drifted down to the lake. The sun had just slipped below the horizon, but its light still lingered. In the twilight, the water was a deep blue--bluer than ever.

He turned away.

Tomorrow would be a busy day. He had the letters he’d ignored in favor of working on a serial he now knew he'd never finish. There was also the caravan deal, and finding out more about Thrask’s apostate.

Then the meeting with Dusana, and Maker knew she’d be gloating about her little victory the whole time. The mere thought of it was exhausting. He'd have to go to bed early tonight.

_Or…._

Varric shoved his hands in his pockets. Or maybe the serial could be salvaged. There was nothing about the bare bones of his story that tied it to the Circle. He could rework it and make Brennokovic--- what? A mercenary? A soldier? A thief?

He'd think on it.

In any event, he had some writing to do. Life went on. That was one thing Varric always believed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may remember an earlier version of this fic. I took it down when I felt I was painting myself into too many corners and didn't have a firm grasp on the Hawke sisters. Some things will be staying the same - this first chapter is very similar to how it originally appeared - but other things will be changing, some of them drastically. 
> 
> I thought it would make sense to start with the hows and whys of our Edward Ferrars and Lucy Steele this time around. I also just really liked this chapter and missed having it up :) 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	2. Elinor

 

The Hawke family had been settled in Ferelden for the better part of the Dragon Age. Their residence was in Lothering, where, for several years, they lived in so respectable a manner as to gain the general good opinion of their surrounding acquaintance--this, despite persistent rumors about the owner and his two youngest daughters.

Most of Thedas shunned apostates, but Malcolm Hawke was not a man who gave up easily. The Circle had told him he’d never have a family; by some miracle, he’d had one. His desire to give them a normal life--to be the best husband and father that he could be, regardless of what Chantry law said--became the driving force behind most of his decisions.

To Elinor, his eldest daughter, he was an anchor. He steadied her young mind the same way he would steady an arrow in her hand, reminding her to keep her eyes trained on her target. In a home with one, then two, then three apostates, the world felt like a dangerous place. But under Father’s watch, Elinor felt safe.  

After his death, she realized how much they’d all taken him for granted. At first, grief consumed the spaces he’d left behind, leaving room for little else. But as the months went by, things fell apart. Weeds grew in the garden. A fox got into the henhouse. The arl’s men came by to collect taxes that no one had remembered to pay. Arguments between the siblings became more frequent, and grudges were clung to bitterly, like thin blankets in the cold.  

Something needed to change.

The twins were too young. Carver didn’t even shave yet, and Bethany still wore her hair in two long braids. Mother was… well. They’d learned early on not to rely too much on Mother. The few friends they’d made in the village either did not know about the mages, or they had their own struggles to deal with.

Which left Elinor and Marianne.

It was an unspoken agreement, in the end. Marianne had little patience for people, but she was strong. Picking up Father’s staff, she slid into the role of the family’s protector. She bought a dog and trained him to keep foxes away. She taught the twins how to hunt, and fish, and fight. Sometimes, during the winter, she disappeared for a few days. When she returned, she had new scars, stained armor, and enough money to last them through to spring.

Meanwhile, Elinor took on the house and the finances. She made sure the arl’s men had no reason to return, and that there was always money left over, just in case. She cooked, and cleaned, and patched the roof when it started to leak. She tended to the farm, doling out the lesser chores to her siblings. She soothed Mother’s moods, stopped Carver from bickering with his sisters too often, and, more than once, dissuaded Marianne from engaging with the templars who passed through.

Most importantly, she planned for the future.

As stable as they were, Elinor knew it could not last. _She_ would remain with Mother, but no one should expect all four of them to. Leandra could be difficult under the best of circumstances; these were not the best of circumstances. Marianne, Carver, and Bethany deserved a chance at a _real_ life, one where there were no mysterious stains on Marianne’s armor, and they all had occupations. A place of their own--maybe even partners and children. Elinor found she rather liked the idea of being an aunt.

It was easy to imagine Carver doing well; bullheaded as he could be, he was young and had no magic to hide. He had ambition, even if it did tend to be a little aimless. Marianne and Bethany posed the bigger challenge. Besides them both being mages, Elinor could not help but worry that one would put up unnecessary fights, while the other would not fight back at all, if the time came.

With enough gold, though, she knew even her sisters could be happy. Father had often reminded his children that _money,_ not might, was the secret to being a good apostate. Elinor pinched every copper; she counted coins into a wooden chest; she told herself that she was her father’s daughter. She could be an anchor, too.

For a few years, that plan appeared to be working.

Then the Blight came.

The chest of coins was abandoned in Lothering. Whatever stability they’d recovered in the years following Father’s death was snatched from their fingers. _Bethany_ was snatched from their fingers.

In a family with three, then two, then one apostate, the Hawke family fled Ferelden. As Mother wept, and the woman called Aveline stared hard into the distance, Elinor watched her homeland grow smaller and smaller, until it disappeared into the horizon.

The gulls cawed over her head.  

She had never felt less like Malcolm Hawke’s daughter in her life.

 

~~

 

The following summer, Elinor perched on an unstable stool, focused on an inventory book. Unlike her brother and sister, she was no fighter, and so she’d spent the last eleven months taking on a series of odd jobs around Kirkwall to pay off her portion of Gamlen’s debt. Most recently, an herbalist named Puck had hired her to help around his stand in Lowtown. Elinor was trying to track down the source of a discrepancy she’d discovered in his finances. It was becoming apparent that Puck was better at mixing potions than he was at keeping track of money.

Elinor was so focused that she did not see her sister approaching. Marianne hopped up to sit on the table, causing the wood to shudder. Startled, Elinor looked up.

Marianne was scanning the crowd. “Where’s Ser Dimples and his impeccable forearms?” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “Or is it Ser Forearms and his impeccable dimples? Still haven’t decided.”

Elinor relaxed, rubbing her eyes. “Out buying supplies. And get off the table, please. You’re going to break it.”

“Nonsense. I haven’t broken it yet.”

“Not for lack of trying.”

None of the Hawkes could be described as small. Bethany had been the shortest, and even then, it was only by a few inches. Marianne and Carver were always large, like Father had been, but since arriving in Kirkwall, they’d bulked up significantly. Elinor thought her sister could probably break her in half now.

Marianne scrunched her nose, ignoring Elinor’s comment. “Maker’s balls! Does it always smell this bad down here? I feel like I would have noticed by now.”

Lowtown’s marketplace did have a unique stench--a fragrant mix of sweaty bodies, rotting trash, and seafood fried in rancid oil. The summer’s final attempt at a heat wave wasn’t helping, either. Fortunately for Elinor, drying herbs hung from the beams of Puck’s stand, and they masked the most of it.

“It’s the heat,” she explained, turning back to the book in front of her. She made a check next to the final number for _Ingredients Purchased._ “And it’s far worse down by the docks.”

“That doesn’t count. Everyone expects the docks to smell like fish. Besides, at least there’s a breeze near the water.”

“There’s also a battalion of qunari. I doubt they freshen up the place.”

“You’d be surprised. They’re actually quite clean, for soldiers.”

As she spoke, Marianne pulled out an apple and began slicing it with a knife. Elinor’s eyes flicked up. Her quill stilled over the column labelled _Potions Made,_ and her mouth dropped open as she recognized the knife’s red handle.

_“Marianne.”_

“What?” Marianne asked, chewing the first slice.

Elinor nodded toward the knife, horrified. “You can’t be serious.”

“About?”

“You eat with that thing?”

“This?” Marianne blinked and turned the knife over in her hand, confused. “Sometimes.”

“That’s awful!”

“Why?”

“Because you’ve…. _You know.”_ At Marianne’s blank expression, Elinor made a quick cutting motion over her throat with one finger and gurgled.

Marianne laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous, Ellie. It’s not like I don’t clean it. Besides, it’s been _weeks_ since I’ve….” She mimicked Elinor’s motion with the knife itself before cutting off another slice of apple. She popped it into her mouth. Elinor gagged, and Marianne rolled her eyes. “What, you think I should carry two knives around? One for eating, one for killing? A food knife, and a murder knife? That sounds like a waste of resources.”

“Maker’s _breath.”_

“Margaret does it, too.”

“That’s no excuse. And you know Carver hates when you call him that.”

“Then he shouldn’t be such a little girl about everything,” Marianne complained. Elinor’s mouth opened, but Marianne waved her off. “Will you listen for a moment? I didn't come by just to argue about murder knives and ogle Ser Dimples, you know. I wanted to ask you something.”

Elinor shut her mouth. If she were honest, her true concern lay with the fact that Marianne needed a _murder knife_ at all. Since they'd fled Lothering, she'd seen a side of her sister she did not particularly like. From the easy way Marianne introduced herself as _‘Hawke’_ \--like someone in a military organization, or, possibly, a gang--to the measured way she carried her staff, Elinor could tell that none of this was new to her. _This_ was a part of Marianne that had always been there, reserved for bandits, or soldiers, or templars, or whoever she’d worked for in Ferelden.

Elinor had never been ignorant of the fact that her sister was a mercenary. So was Carver. Once upon a time, Father had killed people for money, too. The bigger issue to Elinor was that, unlike Carver or Father, Marianne seemed perfectly happy with her situation. She treated it like a long-term solution to survival, rather than an extreme measure to fall back on in times of necessity. The longer they stayed in Kirkwall, the more comfortable with it she seemed.

Elinor was concerned.

But that was a discussion for another day.

“What is it?” she asked her sister tiredly.

“Could you leave work early tonight?”

She thought over their lack of customers, rubbing a trickle of sweat off her neck. “Probably,” she told her sister. “I’ll have to ask Puck if he minds closing. Why?”

“There’s a guest coming to dinner.”

“A guest?” The Hawkes did not know very many people in Kirkwall. “Who? Aveline?”

“No. Someone you haven’t met yet.” Marianne looked away a little. “Varric Tethras.”

Elinor raised an eyebrow. “Tethras.”

“Yes.”

“As in, the Tethras brothers.”

“Yes.”

“From the Tethras Deep Roads Expedition.”

“He’s the younger one.”

Elinor rubbed her eyes again. Marianne and Carver had spoken to her about joining the expedition last week. Besides the fact that it would cost them a whopping fifty gold to even join, Elinor disliked the image of her two remaining siblings trapped in the dark, surrounded by darkspawn. The memory of Bethany’s corpse being flung aside by an ogre was too fresh in her mind.

“No,” she said firmly. “I already told you. No Deep Roads. The Blight's over, and the debt’s almost paid off. We need to focus on getting out of Kirkwall.”

“I want to go home, too, Ellie,” Marianne assured her. “Trust me, I do. But as long as we’re here--as long as _I’m_ here--we’re sitting ducks in a pond for _the templars.”_ She lowered her voice on the last two words. “Besides. Think how useful it’d be to have oodles of money when we get back to Ferelden.”

That part _was_ tempting. Thanks to the debt and interest, they were even poorer than when they’d entered the city. If it meant Marianne could stop killing for coin….

Still, Elinor shook her head. “No. I’m sorry. It’s too dangerous. _And_ it’s too expensive. Fifty gold is a lot of coin to give to a couple of dodgy businessmen you met a week ago.”

“They aren’t dodgy.” Marianne narrowed her eyes. “Are you just saying that because they’re dwarves?”

“No!” Elinor exclaimed defensively. “Of course not. Didn’t Carver call them dodgy?”

“He probably meant the older one. Bartrand. Varric’s the nice one.” Marianne finished her apple and threw the core to the ground. She began twirling her knife between her fingers idly. “He’s been helping Margaret and me find work around town. You must be pleased to hear that.”

“Legitimate work?”

“Yes,” Marianne said. Then she winced and admitted, “Well. _Mostly_ legitimate work. Legitimate-ish. More legitimate than anything we ever did for Meeran.”

“Such a high bar to set,” Elinor said dryly.

“Look, we owe him a home-cooked meal, at least. All I ask is that, while he’s there, you hear him out. He knows more about the expedition than I do. Maybe he can ease some of your concerns.” Marianne held up a hand. “If not, I'll shut up and never mention the Deep Roads again. Hand to the Maker.” She nudged her sister with her elbow when there was no reply. “Come on. You’re always telling me to keep an open mind. Can’t you do the same? For me?”

“Fine,” Elinor said, already regretting her answer.

Marianne grinned in triumph. “Wonderful!”

“But this _doesn’t_ mean I’m changing my mind,” Elinor warned. “It just means I’ll listen. And don’t let him talk to Mother about it. You know how she gets about anything involving darkspawn.”

“Of course. I’ll warn him. Thank you so, so much. He said he’d be there at sundown.”

Elinor paused, confused. “Wait. If he’s not getting there until sundown, why do I need to leave work early?”

“Because you’re cooking dinner.”

“I’m _what?”_

“Please, Ellie?” Marianne begged.

“Why can’t Mother cook? Or Carver?”

“You’re a much better cook than either of them. I’m not going to serve him Mother’s _druffalo stew,_ for Maker’s sake.” She shuddered. “At this point, I’d honestly rather eat something _Gamlen_ cooked than--” Marianne stopped herself, glancing across the marketplace. “Oh! Don’t look now, but here comes Ser Dimples.”

Elinor looked up to confirm that, yes, Puck was on his way back from the docks. He went down there daily around noon to buy goods from ships that had docked during the night. Why he bothered, when the merchandise they already _had_ wasn’t selling well, Elinor did not know.

Marianne squinted. “Who’s the Mustache?”

Elinor’s eyes slid to the man next to Puck--a taller man with a rather severe mustache and velvet robes. She groaned. “Roderigo.”

“Tevinter?”

“Apparently.”

“Apostate?”

Elinor considered. “I’m not sure, actually. He’s friends with Puck. Comes by the stand sometimes.” She shuddered. “I don’t like him.”

“Of course you don’t like him. Look at him. A Vint with a mustache. He’s either a blood mage or a slaver.”

Elinor snorted. “Either way, he’s a pig. He always stares at my legs.”

Marianne looked amused. “Is that so?” she asked. “Does Ser Dimples ever stare at your legs?”

“No,” Elinor said, rolling her eyes.

“Do you ever stare at his?” Marianne asked coyly.

 _“Marianne,”_ Elinor warned.

“What? You can’t deny the man is good-looking.”

“No one said that.” Puck was, in fact, very good-looking. He had a square jaw, and thick hair that had a tendency to fall in his bright green eyes. “He’s also dumb as a rock.” Elinor pointed at the inventory book. “This is the fourth mistake he’s made in the three weeks since I started.” Marianne gave her a sidelong glance. “Don’t give me that look. It’s off by at least three gold.”

Marianne peered over her shoulder. “Alright, that _is_ a lot,” she admitted. She frowned. “Could he be doing it on purpose?”

“Why would he alter his own books? Besides, the total money’s going up, not down.” Elinor shook her head. “Although… given that this is the same man who once asked me whether or not there were _cats_ in Ferelden, I wouldn’t be shocked if that’s how he thinks embezzlement works.”

“Well. Nobody’s perfect,” Marianne said. Puck had spotted them. Marianne gave him a flirtatious look and a little wave, which he returned, flashing his signature dimples at her.

Elinor had to laugh. “You really have no standards, do you?” she asked her sister.

“On the contrary,” Marianne said, hopping off the table. “I have far too many standards. No one could possibly live up to them. Which is why I ignore them entirely.”

“Of course. My mistake.”

“Anyway, I’ll make myself scarce before the Mustache has a chance to form an opinion about my legs. See you at home. And no druffalo stew!” Marianne pointed a finger at her sister, walking backwards.

“If Puck doesn’t let me leave, I’m afraid we’ll be stuck with it.”

“No,” Marianne said. “I don’t care. If a slab of druffalo comes within ten feet of that house, I’m feeding it to Dashwood.”

With that, she disappeared around the corner.

Elinor chuckled and turned back to Puck. His face had grown more serious as he exchanged a few parting words with Roderigo. The other man patted his shoulder and nodded at her once before stalking off toward Darktown, to her immense relief.

“How’re things?” Puck asked as he reached the stand. “No trouble, I hope?”

“No trouble,” Elinor told him. “No customers, either.”

He seemed unconcerned, placing his satchel on the stand. “Must be the heat.” He began rifling through the herbs he’d bought by the docks. “Should pick up once the weather breaks.”

“Actually…. Since it’s been so slow, I was wondering if I could leave a little early today. My sister’s having someone over for dinner.”

“As long as you’re here to open in the morning, sure. We can--” He glanced over and cut himself off as he noticed what she was reading. “Ah. You’re… checking the books. Again.”

“Oh--yes,” Elinor said awkwardly. A muscle in Puck’s jaw twitched. He always seemed so embarrassed when she found a mistake, which made her feel a little guilty. “I saw another discrepancy in yesterday’s log,” she explained. “Which led me to check last month. And then I noticed the order you received from Antiva was counted under the wrong vendor, because you can’t get felandaris from Antiva--”

“Elinor,” Puck interrupted. He turned to fully face her, his hand on the table. “It’s fine. I just…. Handling the finances is _my_ part of the job. I don’t want you to feel overwhelmed.”

“I don’t,” Elinor assured him. “Really, I don’t.”

“Because overwhelmed people make mistakes,” he said seriously.

“I know.”

“And this has been working out so far. I’d hate to have to lose you.”

The implication was clear. “I understand,” Elinor said.

Puck hesitated, then smiled. “Good.” He began to thread some elfroot into a bundle. “Listen,” he said. “Since you need to leave early… why not just take the rest of the day?”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Don’t worry, I’ll put you down for you full wages.” He tied the first bundle to a beam, stretching to reach the top of the stand. “I think it’s clear no one’s coming by. After I’m finished with these, I’ll just close up.”

Elinor was surprised. Usually, Puck was very particular about her hours. But an afternoon off meant she’d be able to pick up some ingredients--maybe even a loaf of fresh bread. It seemed like Marianne would escape the fate of druffalo stew after all. Elinor began to remove her apron, brushing her hands off as she did.

“Thank you, Puck. I owe you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Puck told her. She rifled through her things, packing up her bag, and he stepped between her and the table. He flipped the inventory book shut. “Really. It’s my pleasure.”

 

~~

 

Varric Tethras arrived just before sundown. Marianne had mentioned that the Tethras brothers were dwarves, but Elinor was still caught off guard by his appearance. She’d expected someone who looked like the other dwarves she saw around Kirkwall--beards and braids and tidy earth-toned clothing--or perhaps like one of Meeran’s roughed-up mercenaries. Besides his nose, which had clearly been broken at least once, Varric looked like neither. He was a few days past clean shaven, with stubble covering his strong jaw. Over a loose red shirt, he wore a long leather coat that looked worn, but high in quality. Both his ears were pierced.

Gamlen was mysteriously absent. Elinor suspected that someone had bribed him to not exist for the night. While she finished cooking dinner, Marianne gave Varric a quick tour; afterward, he helped their mother set the table.

The meal was simple: white fish, greens cooked in vinegar and butter, and bread from a bakery in Hightown that Marianne liked. Varric paid his compliments on everything and seemed sincere enough. While they ate, he entertained Mother, reminiscing about Kirkwall’s past. They agreed that the docks had felt safer under the old viscount, that they both missed a long forgotten Orlesian cafe in Lowtown, and that it was a shame so many beautiful Hightown manors were left to rot, uninhabited. Within an hour, Mother was laughing at a frankly unbelievable story she’d never heard about a former revered mother, a visiting bard, and a barrel of stolen brandy. Even Elinor had to hide her smile.

In short, to Elinor’s surprise, Varric was punctual, well-mannered, and charming. Under normal circumstances, she may have even enjoyed his company. As it was, she was too busy trying to find a reason to distrust him.

Dinner finished, and Mother began to clean up. As Marianne and Carver helped her carry the first round of dishes to the sink, Varric turned to face Elinor. She expected him to dive straight into the Deep Roads expedition. Instead, he asked her how long she’d been working for Puck.

“About a month,” she told him. She tilted her head, curious. “Marianne told you about that?”

“Nah,” he said. “I try to keep an eye on the merchants in Lowtown.” He shrugged vaguely. “Guild stuff.”

“I didn’t realize you were in the Merchants' Guild.”

“I’m a dwarf in Kirkwall,” Varric said with a chuckle. “Of course I’m in the Merchants' Guild. You like working at the stand?”

“I do,” she said. She realized her tone sounded uncertain, so she clarified. “It’s not what I’m used to. We were farmers, you know, back in Ferelden. I miss it. This is….” She paused. “It’s different. I’m grateful for the work, though. Not many people are willing to hire me.” Mother returned to collect another round of empty plates, and Marianne and Carver went back to their seats. Elinor realized Varric was waiting for her cue to broach the topic. She watched her mother walk toward the sink again, lowering her voice. “And… as you know, my family needs the money.”

“Yeah, Kirkwall’s not too keen on refugees these days,” he said. “I wish I could say that’ll change, but I’m not so sure. Sometimes I think this city runs on nerves.” He glanced at Mother, who was now filling up a kettle to make tea, and cleared his throat. “As for the money….” He trailed off, looking back at all three of them.

“The Deep Roads,” Elinor said.

“The Deep Roads,” he agreed. Marianne looked between them eagerly as Varric splayed his hands. “I know. They’re not my favorite place, either. But we’ll have maps. As long as you have maps, you can pretty much get anywhere down there.” He made a face. “And my brother Bartrand…. Well, he’s a stubborn nug’s ass most of the time, but I trust him when it comes to two things: sniffing out coin, and not getting lost. Any mess he can get us into, he can get us out of, ten times richer than when we entered.”

“It sounds like you’re expecting something to go wrong.”

Varric let out a huff. “Yeah, well. That’s not Deep Roads exclusive. I find it’s a healthy approach to most things in life.”

Elinor tapped her fingers on the table as she studied his face. After a glance at her siblings, she asked, “Why are you so eager to get my brother and sister down there anyway?”

“It’s your sister, mainly,” Varric said.

“Oh,” Carver huffed. “Thanks for that.”

Varric ignored him. “I wouldn’t say I’m eager about getting her into the Deep Roads. But I need a way to drum up money. Preferably through means not involving the Guild, or my brother. Hawke’s name came to me by a very reputable source.” He smirked. “And I know potential when I see it.”

After a moment of silence, Carver spoke up again. “Someone will sell us out to the Gallows before long if we don’t so something.”

Marianne agreed. “We’ve seen it happen to other apostates who left Meeran’s crew.”

“Maker, Elinor, Meeran might sell us out himself,” Carver added.

“But… the darkspawn--,” Elinor began.

Carver cut her off. “We _fought_ darkspawn, sister. You saw us.”

Elinor stiffened. “And look where it got us.”

“That won’t happen again,” Marianne said firmly.

Elinor did not voice her skepticism. The high squeal of a kettle informed them that Mother would be joining them again in a moment, but her mind was not decided. “I’ll think about it,” she said at last.

Marianne scowled, but Varric sat back, nodding. “That’s all we ask.”

Mother returned with a tray of tea. She placed a cup in front of each of them. “What are you all so serious about?” she asked with a bit of a smile.

Varric leaned back, wrapping his hand around his cup. “Oh, just discussing my brother Bartrand.” He took a sip of tea. “Not the most pleasant of topics, to be honest with you. Maybe we should go back to the bard.”

 

~~

 

A thunderstorm went through during the night. Dashwood hid under the bed and whined. When the thunder faded, he stayed there, only emerging when Marianne lured him with a piece of food.

The skies were clear by dawn. It was warm, but nowhere near as oppressive as the previous day had been. Summer was coming to an end.

When Elinor arrived at the stand, her steps slowed to a halt. It was her day to open, so she was surprised to see Puck there, his back to her, cleaning out the copper still he used to thicken potions.

“Puck,” she greeted, confused.

He paused and grinned. “Morning, Elinor.”

“You’re here early.”

“I am. I ended up leaving right after you yesterday. Wanted to look into that discrepancy you found.”

“Oh,” Elinor said.

“Everything’s cleared up,” he assured her, turning back to the still. “Thanks for catching that.”

She frowned. His odd behavior made her think of Marianne’s question from the day before. _Could he be doing it on purpose?_ “Of course,” she replied out loud. She watched him as she put on her apron. “So. Would you like me to get started on the embrium?”

He shot a dimpled smile over his shoulder. “That would be great. Thanks.”

They worked side-by-side for the rest of the day. Her suspicion started to seem a little ridiculous the more she watched him. Besides his good looks, he seemed just the same as any other merchant in the city. He certainly did not shirk his duties. Why would he be lying?

She was almost sure Marianne was wrong-- _almost--_ when he told her he had to head back down to the docks. She knew he would meet with Roderigo while he was there. The uneasiness returned. She lingered over the copper still, biting her lip. After a half hour’s deliberation, she ducked under the stand and opened the chest where the inventory book was kept.

It was gone.

She stared at the empty spot in shock. As far as she knew, Puck had never taken the inventory book out of the stand.

“Hello?” a customer’s voice said.

Elinor slammed the chest shut and popped up, blinking. “Yes, sorry,” she said, a little breathless from her discovery. “How--how can I help you?”

“I need a potion for stomach aches,” a man in a hat said. “But not one with lotus, please. I’m allergic.”

“Of course,” Elinor said distantly. She went through the motions of assisting the man, her mind a thousand miles away. All she could picture was the empty chest.

The customer left with his purchase. Elinor sat on the uneven stool and chewed on her fingernail. What in the Void was Puck up to?

 

~~

 

Given her limited options, Elinor could only think of one person to ask for advice: Aveline Vallen, the one friend the Hawkes had in Kirkwall. Aveline’s moral compass was firm, and yet she recognized that not all situations were black and white. Plus, she would not mince words. If Elinor sounded paranoid, Aveline would call her out on it.

So, after work, she headed to the barracks in the Viscount’s keep. Aveline had the lower bunk of a bed in a room of four. Only one other bed was taken at the moment, and luckily, Aveline took the night shifts, meaning she often had the room to herself.

Aveline was cleaning her weapons and armor when Elinor knocked on her open door. “Elinor,” she said, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

With Aveline, very little time needed to be wasted on pleasantries. Elinor closed the door. She took a quick breath and began to explain herself. She described what she’d seen at the stand, being sure to mention Puck’s strange behavior. Aveline listened. As she did, she dragged an oiled cloth over a pair of grieves, and then her sword, cleaning them. Her eyes were on the metal, but by the lines on her forehead and the thinness of her lips, Elinor could tell she was focused on the story.

When Elinor finished, Aveline sat back. “Well,” she said. “He’s definitely hiding something.”

It was a relief to hear someone else agree. “What do I do?” Elinor asked. Aveline gave her a strange look. “What?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure you do anything. I can see it ending one of two ways. Either you’re right, and you’re out of a job. Or you’re wrong, and you’re out of a job.” She picked up a gauntlet and began cleaning it next. “And you need this job. Especially if you’re serious about not letting Hawke and Carver join the Deep Roads expedition.”

“Maker’s breath,” Elinor said. “Not you, too. Why is everyone acting like that’s the _only_ chance we have of making any money?” Aveline didn’t reply, frowning. “Oh, really, Aveline. Our choices can’t be Deep Roads or death, can they?”

“If it were only you and Carver, I’d agree. But with Hawke’s circumstances, things aren’t that simple. You know that she won’t just submit to the Gallows if they catch her.”

Elinor rubbed her forehead. That much was true. “Have you met the Tethras brothers?”

“I’ve met Varric.”

“What do you think of him?”

Aveline considered before answering. She finished her gauntlets and moved on to her shield. Her own expression did not change, but Elinor felt the twinge in her chest she always felt when her eye caught the templar insignia on the front. It brought back the memory of the first time she’d seen the shield--a mage and a templar arguing on the outskirts of a burning village, neither of whom would live to see night fall.

“Overall, I like him,” Aveline admitted finally, bringing Elinor back to the present. “But he talks too much to say anything, if that makes sense. He’s clever. That much is clear. Half the time, I wonder if he’s goading us on to take notes.”

“Take notes?”

“Yes. For his books.”

“His books,” Elinor echoed, not understanding.

Aveline stood, wiping her hands on her pants. Once she located what she was looking for on her dresser, she handed Elinor a thin volume. Elinor read the cover: _Darktown’s Deal._ Underneath it, in smaller lettering, there was a byline: _Varric Tethras._

“Apparently, he’s a bit of a local celebrity,” Aveline explained. “Another guard here lent me the whole collection. Hawke took the others.” She waved at the book. “She said this one sounded too boring.”

Elinor frowned. She felt like every time she began to form an opinion on Varric, she learned a new fact that was completely at odds with her understanding. She looked at Aveline. “But do you trust him?”

“That’s hardly a fair question,” Aveline said. “Outside of you and your family, I don’t trust anyone in this city. One thing is for certain, though--he’s better than Meeran. And Hawke and Carver survived a year of the Red Lion.”

“They didn’t have a choice.”

“They may not have one now,” Aveline pointed out.

Elinor felt the beginnings of a headache. “Aveline, I’d prefer not to argue about this. Could we please go back to Puck? He’s the reason I came all the way up here.”

Aveline sighed. “I know why you’re doing this,” she said in a firm tone. “Next week marks one year since….” She trailed off. “Since we left Ferelden.”

“Bethany is _not_ my only objection to the expedition.”

“No,” Aveline said. “I don’t mean the Deep Roads expedition. Your boss. The crooked herbalist. You’re fixating on _him_ because you don’t want to think about _her.”_ She looked away. “I know because I’m doing the same thing.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Jeven. _My_ boss. The Captain of the Guard. I think he’s involved in some sort of… conspiracy.”

“Why?”

“Some… things have come to light. I’m torn about what to do. I doubt I can make a case yet.” She began to pack up her cleaning supplies and cleared her throat. “But I don’t have an apostate sister to worry about. Besides, I have authorities I can go to, if I’m right. You? You’re shooting arrows into the dark.”

“Couldn’t I go to the guard about Puck?”

“What do you think _we_ can do about a man writing down wrong figures in his own ledger?” She looked Elinor in the eye. “Look: Figure out _who_ he’s trying to hide those numbers from, and why. Until then, you’re just going to get yourself fired. Or worse.”

“You’re right,” Elinor admitted with a sigh. And now she was questioning why she wanted to know in the first place. She was not sure if she’d forgotten or had been repressing the anniversary of their escape. None of them should be alone that day, she realized. “Speaking of next week,” she said to Aveline. “Would you… would you come to dinner? Mother will deal with everything better if you’re there.”

“Of course,” Aveline said. “I’d like that.” There was a long pause during which they both stared at the ground. Finally, Aveline stood. “I need to prepare for my patrol.”

Elinor nodded. “Alright. Thank you, for the advice. Good luck with Jeven.”

“Any time,” Aveline said. “Good luck with the herbalist.”

Elinor went to hand Aveline back the book. Something about seeing Varric’s name in the tiny gold lettering stayed her hand. If she was trying to parse out his character, then maybe his writing would give her some clarity. “Actually, do you mind if I borrowed this?”

“It’s not mine,” Aveline reminded her. “But be my guest. I doubt Donnic would mind much.”

 

~~

 

Sleep had never come easily to Elinor Hawke. Even as a child, she could remember slipping out of the bed she shared with her sister, long past midnight, to pad around whatever tiny hut their father had managed to scrounge up for them, like a cat in a barnhouse. She’d curl up in front of the fireplace, or linger at the kitchen table, or re-arrange the growing pile of wooden toys that they collected along the way. It was, as far as Elinor could tell, the only reason she had such vivid memories of the places the Hawkes called home before they’d found Lothering--Rockfast, Landervale, Lenridge, Claremont, Amaranthine. Too many to name. Carver and Bethany had been too young to remember, Marianne could never keep the details straight, and even Mother sometimes flipped them round--she’d conflate the house in Claremont with the one in Rockfast, or call Marianne’s friend from Amaranthine by the name of Elinor’s friend from Lenridge.

Over time, insomnia became a flaw that Elinor sharpened into a skill. It was a trade-off. In exchange for the dark circles beneath her eyes and an over-reliance on drinking tea to function, she gained hour and hours of solitude. She read books, and wrote poems, and practiced drawing, blessedly alone with her thoughts.

Nighttime held secrets, as well. Eavesdropping on her parents was the way she’d learned about templars and mages. It was how she’d first heard about Kirkwall--Mother and Father used to argue about whether or not they should return, before Marianne’s magic began. One time, during her nightly explorations, she’d found a brass wax seal in Father’s writing desk with a strange animal carved into the bottom. At first, she thought it was a hawk, until she realized it had four legs. When she’d asked Father about it, she’d received no answer. Instead, the next time she checked, it had vanished, as if it had never been there at all.

This practice continued in Kirkwall.

The midnight after speaking with Aveline, Elinor sat in the glow of a soft lantern, with _Darktown’s Deal_ open in front of her. Gamlen’s house creaked as it settled. If she focused, she could hear Dashwood’s heavy, steady breaths. Pale violet light shone in through the window.

She flipped a page. She had to admit, she was grudgingly impressed. Varric handled the topic of Orzammar’s reliance on surface trade deftly, and with more than a little humor. She did not know enough to speak to his accuracy, but at the very least, he was not trying to hide a bias.

As she read, she tried to keep her thoughts from dragging back to Puck. Aveline was right. Unless she knew _who_ he was hiding from, she couldn’t do anything. It was a dead end. Now that the inventory book had been secreted away to his home--probably locked in his desk drawer, if Elinor had to guess--who would even see the changes?

She turned another page.

And then, in a moment of insomnia-induced clarity, the two sides of Elinor’s mind clicked together. Her head lifted. She realized several things at the exact same time.

There were only two groups of people that would see Puck’s books, other than Puck himself. The first group was the government. The viscount’s men used inventory logs for tax purposes--but Puck increasing his _own_ profit would just mean he’d pay higher taxes. That could not be the goal.

The other group was the Merchants’ Guild.

The Guild was responsible for overseeing trade in Kirkwall. So much coin passed through their hands that they needed to know where it started, where it went, and how it moved from column A to column B. In exchange, they provided free protection for anyone who ran a stand in Kirkwall. This social contract involved checking the trade deals that every merchant in the city made--dwarf, human, or elf--to ensure, among other things, that their money was clean.

But in Kirkwall, _‘clean’_ was not held to the highest standard. Officially, there were only two forms of trade that were off the table: The slave trade and the lyrium trade. Lyrium usually wormed its way through the heart of the Guild anyway, as it was wont to do, but slavery--slavery was something the City of Chains no longer condoned. The Merchants' Guild drew the line at human trafficking. Of course, that did not stop a stubborn group of Tevinter nobles from trying their best to bring back the good old days.

Meaning, the main reason someone would put additional money on their books in Kirkwall was if they were trying to hide slave money from the Merchants' Guild.

Puck was not embezzling money. He was _laundering_ it.

“Maker’s breath,” Elinor whispered to herself.  

The realization sunk in like a cold rain, chilling Elinor to the bone. It was so much worse than she’d thought. Before, it had been a little corruption versus the difficulty of finding a new job. But this…. _Slavery._ This was a question of morals.

She had to turn him in.

She needed to get her hands on that book.

Elinor stood in a trance and went into the room she shared with her siblings. Marianne and Carver were out. They’d carried their staff and sword when they left, and Elinor suspected they would come home at dawn, with stained armor. Given what she was about to do, she had no place to judge.

Unrolling a thick cloth from the chest at the bottom of her bed, she counted the lockpicks in front of her. To her relief, none were missing. She rolled the cloth back up. It was true that Father, Marianne, and Carver had sunk to mercenary work from time to time, and that Elinor had not liked it; but hypocrite that she was, during the harder years, Elinor had drifted toward a different method of survival.

Everyone had their vices.

As she reached for the front door, she heard a soft whine.

“Hush,” she whispered at Dashwood, who was watching her with a tilted head. He whined again, glancing at the door and lengthening it into a question. Elinor relented. The streets _were_ dangerous at night. “Fine. But you’re staying outside when we get there, you lumbering beast.”

They slipped through Lowtown toward Puck’s place. It was right next to the Hanged Man. Elinor had only been twice, to drop off money, but she knew it had two rooms. His desk was in the main room; his bed was in the back. If all went well, she would be in and out without him ever knowing she was there.

She glanced up and down the street, making sure it was deserted, then crouched beside his door. She had it open in less time than Gamlen could undo the lock on his own door with an actual key.

Once she was inside, she let her eyes adjust to the darkness before creeping across the room. She was a little surprised to discover that Puck kept his desk locked--but then, that was why it was important to carry a full set of picks. This one was a little trickier, and she grew nervous. Finally, it answered her, clicking open. She breathed a sigh of relief and grabbed the book.

There was a creak behind her. Startled, she spun around.

Puck stood in the doorway between the rooms, a lantern in one hand. “Elinor,” he said darkly. She stumbled as she leapt to her feet, and her hip hit the desk behind her. “What are you doing here?”

“I… wanted to… drop off some earnings,” she tried. “We had another customer, after you left, and….” Her voice trailed off. He wasn’t buying it, she could tell. Not that she blamed him. The sun had set hours ago, and his door had been locked; there was no innocent explanation for her presence.

His eyes slid to the book in her hand. “Uh huh.” He looked back at her face. “What are you _really_ doing here?”

“I think you know,” she said softly. Puck’s jaw tightened. His shoulders sagged, and he ran his spare hand through his hair, sighing. “It’s for Roderigo, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said bitterly. He grimaced. “I should have fired you when I had the chance. But I thought that would just raise more questions.”

“What’s he selling?”

Puck opened his mouth to answer that question, then changed courses. “I had to do it,” he told her. “You’ve seen what it’s like in this city. Everyone’s corrupt. Anyone who isn’t leaves. Or dies.”

As he spoke, Elinor began to take account of the exits. The entrance was behind him; even in a mad dash, she wouldn’t make it. There was a window next her. The glass looked thick, and opening it would take too long. His bedroom was out of the question. The floor was smooth--no cellar.

She dearly wished she’d brought her bow. Maybe she needed to reconsider her stance on murder knives. She wondered if she could call out to Dashwood.

“It’s made things much easier,” he went on, looking away. “I haven’t gone hungry once since I started doing it.”

“What’s he selling?” she repeated.

Puck didn’t say anything, and she knew. She knew for a fact, right then and there, that it was slave money. Of the options before her, she decided playing dumb was her safest bet.

“It’s lyrium, isn’t it?” she asked, trying to give him an out. If she could just get out of that room….

But Puck was not the idiot she believed him to be. He gave her a pointed look. “You know it’s not lyrium, Elinor.”

Her throat bobbed. “I won’t tell anyone, I promise,” she said--lied, if she were being honest. But she _needed_ to get out of that room.

“No,” Puck agreed sadly, stepping forward. His hand went to his waist. “You won’t.”

She took a sharp breath as she saw the knife. “Puck,” she said, her heart racing. “I told my friend. If I’m killed, she’ll go to the Guild.”

It did not have the intended effect. Puck kept walking toward her. “When no one finds you, or the money, who do you think they’ll believe was the culprit? The idiot herbalist from Markham? Or the Ferelden beggar who skipped town, never to be heard from again?”

 _“Puck,”_ Elinor begged. “We can turn him in together. Don’t you think--”

Before she could say anything else, the door behind him swung open. Ice snapped Puck’s feet in place. His face registered surprise, his eyes widening, and then, with a _‘thwack’_ , he went slack. Elinor screamed and dropped the inventory book, crouching into a ball and throwing her hands over her head.

Through her fingers, she watched as he fell forward, dead. The knife and lantern dropped. A pool of blood expanded beneath his corpse.

The lantern lay on its side, glowing at an odd angle. Varric stepped into its halo, his crossbow still propped in his hands. He stepped gingerly over Puck’s body, kicking it first to make sure it didn’t move. Then he looked over at Elinor. Uncorking the crossbow, he held out a hand.

“You okay?”

She didn’t move. She was still speechless. Puck’s vacant green eyes were staring at her-- _through_ her. She couldn’t breathe.

Marianne appeared behind the body, frowning. The glow of the lantern made her seem to tower over it. “Damn. Waste of a perfectly good pair of dimples, if you ask me.”

“Luckily, no one did,” Carver said from the back. Aveline entered last, Dashwood at her heels. Carver added, “You both realize you’re supposed to let me and Aveline go first?”

“Sounds like something someone who’s eight kills behind the rest of the party would say,” Varric said.

“Swords at the front,” Carver insisted. “Arrows at the back. Those are the most basic rules of engagement out there.”

Marianne shook her head. _“‘Rules of engagement.’_ Maker’s balls. My brother spends five weeks in an army, and suddenly he’s General Loghain.”

“Wait a sec.” Varric started counting off his fingers. “Farmer, thinks he’s royalty, chip on his shoulder, ego the size of Antiva--you know what? That checks out.”

“Yes, yes, you’re both _hilarious,”_ Carver said dryly.

Elinor heard them all distantly, as if she were underwater. She’d recovered her voice. “How--how…?” she began weakly.

The question trailed off, but Marianne understood. “We’d just finished up a job for Aveline, and then Dashwood showed up, throwing a fit. Aveline told us the whole story with you and Ser Dimples. And, well.” She shrugged at the room. “Here we are.”

Elinor looked at her sister, aghast. “How can you _call_ him that? You… you killed him!”

“Technically, _Varric_ killed him,” Marianne pointed out. She frowned. “And a _‘thank you so much for saving my life’_ would be nice, you know.”

Concern flickered in Varric’s eyes as he looked over at Elinor. “Give her a moment, Hawke. I think she’s in shock.”

On some level, Elinor registered that she probably was. She was beginning to shiver, despite it being summer, and her lungs felt very small. Her gaze was locked back on the body in the odd pool of light and blood.

Puck’s green eyes did not blink.

Aveline moved closer, placing a hand on Elinor’s arm. She made her stand. “She’s not used to the death,” she said grimly. “We should get her out of here.”

“She’s seen bodies before,” Hawke argued.

“Yes, but violence is not something everyone adjusts to easily. You see it with new recruits sometimes.”

“Hawke,” Varric said. “Can you take her home?”

“No. Not yet, anyway. Margaret and I have an appointment with a pirate.”

“Could you not call me that?” Carver snapped.

“Ah,” Varric said. “So you’ve met Isabela. I guess that was bound to happen. Aveline?”

Aveline gestured at the room. “I’ve got to get this cleaned up and report everything back to the Guard.”

Varric wandered closer to Elinor and Aveline. He picked up the inventory book and looked at it curiously before glancing back at Elinor. “Alright. She can come with me until Hawke and Junior are done with their… business.”

“Honestly. What’s wrong with just calling me Carver?”

Aveline tugged gently at Elinor’s arm. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go.”

 

~~

 

Once she was in Varric’s well-lit room in the Hanged Man, she began to feel better. A swig of whiskey, a cup of hot tea, and a blanket helped. Terror still clawed at her throat, but the longer she was away from the body, the easier it was to breathe. She realized both she and Varric had been silent since Aveline had deposited her into the chair by the fireplace and left. Varric waited patiently, flipping through the inventory book while she got back her bearings.

With his eyes focused elsewhere, she studied him. In the flickering light, she could not help but notice how sharp his jawline was. It was dignified. Handsome. A surprising revelation, for some reason. The barrier between dwarf and human had always seemed as cultural as physical to her mind, and so she’d never found a dwarf attractive. But Varric was utterly unlike any dwarf she’d ever met. The more she learned about him, the more she liked him.

The more she _liked_ him.

Maybe it was the lack of a beard--but no, that did not explain the large, strong fingers that were drumming on the table, or the rough voice that poured out of his mouth like strong brandy, or the amber eyes that seemed to see more than they were supposed to whenever they looked at her.

Amber eyes that were looking right at her now, she realized.

She dropped her gaze. _Maker’s breath, Elinor, get a grip,_ she told herself. _Just because he saved your life doesn’t mean you need to hand yourself over as a reward._ She gathered that this sudden attraction was not personal--just the lingering effects of the adrenaline running through her body. Battle lust was something she’d heard of before; she’d never been in a position to experience it.

“Hanging in there, Blue?” he asked.

She blinked up at him, dazed. “Blue?”

“Yeah,” Varric said. He waved at his own face. “You know, the eyes. And the shirt. And the general sense of malaise, but I’m hoping that isn’t permanent.” Before Elinor could question his last point, he asked, more seriously, “How’re you feeling?”

“Better,” she said.

“That’s good.”

“... unemployed,” she realized slowly.

Varric let out a startled laugh. “Yeah. Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “If it’s not too soon, may I ask how it went from _‘I like this job’_ to _‘My boss is trying to stab me with a butcher’s knife’_ in less than two days?”

Elinor hugged herself, pulling the blanket tight. “Puck was laundering money for slavers.”

Varric clearly hadn’t been expecting that answer. “No, shit. Really?” She nodded. He let out a low whistle.

“I should have realized something was up sooner.”

“What tipped you off?”

“The inventory book,” she said, nodding her head forward.

Varric brow lowered in confusion. “This?”

“Yes,” she said.

“But this looks clean.”

“Because he wanted it to look clean.”

Varric frowned. He pushed the book toward her. “Show me,” he asked.

She got up and walked over, slipping into the other chair at his table. He walked around to stand next to her, leaning down beside her.

And just like that, he was right there, inches away. He wasn’t wearing his coat, but he still smelled like leather and cedar oil, and he radiated warmth. She swallowed. Lingering adrenaline or not, the nearness of his body to hers made her stomach tighten with something like heat.

She focused, flipping the pages. “It’s hard to explain. There was… there was no rhythm.”

“Rhythm,” Varric repeated.

“Finances have a rhythm,” Elinor explained. “Some days, he was spending half of what he should have on elfroot.” She pointed at one column. “And other days, he was spending three times as much. To a random observer, that might be fine, because he could explain each difference as an unusual circumstances. But it happened too often.” She found another page. “Same thing here, with the felandaris. Besides which, he put it under an Antivan seller, and you can’t buy felandaris out of Antiva.” She went back a week further, looking for another example. “Oh! And here, see this? Still maintenance?”

“Yeah,” Varric said.

 _“He_ maintained that still. So he was just paying himself.”

Varric moved away and rubbed his chin. Elinor felt both relieved and frustrated. “Huh,” he said. He glanced at her. “And you just… noticed all of that? Accidentally?”

Elinor thought she might be imagining the spark of interest in his eye. Either way, her face was growing warm, so she looked away. “I used to fix _our_ finances,” she admitted. “In Ferelden. On the farm. Just a little, at the end of the year. It was for the arl’s men. We couldn’t exactly say when Bethany got money from healing someone, or when Marianne….” She trailed off, wincing. The recent memory of Marianne standing over a corpse made her a little ill.

“Or why you spent all that money on expensive walking sticks, I assume.”

“False earnings are harder to hide than false spendings,” Elinor said. “If you hide earnings, it looks like you’re trying to avoid taxes. For us, everything  had to _look_ farm related, on paper. And it had to be gradual. A business has a pattern. After a while, you get used to seeing that pattern. If something’s off…. It’s like…. It’s like if someone sings the wrong note in a song.”

She glanced up when she finished. Now, the spark of interest in his eye was definitely real. A fleeting thought of what his stubble would feel like beneath her hand flickered in her mind.

He cracked a smile, breaking her focus. “A rhythm.”

“A rhythm,” she agreed.

Varric walked back to his seat. “You know,” he said, “I might have a job for you.” She watched him warily. In her haze, she’d forgotten she was supposed to be finding a reason to distrust him. With any luck, he was about to hand that to her. “The Merchants' Guild. I know you’re human, but--”

“They’ve been outsourcing to humans since 9:06 Dragon,” Elinor said, thinking back to _Darktown's Deal_. “I know.” Varric looked taken aback. “It’s an open secret,” she said defensively. “I… I read it somewhere.”

Varric gave her an odd look. If he suspected he knew where she’d read it, he didn’t say anything. “Yeah…. Anyway. I’d recommend you, if you’re interested. Better let me do the talking, though. You being human might not be a problem nowadays, but you being Ferelden….” He shrugged. “Well. Opinions vary.”

Elinor narrowed her eyes. “Is this some ploy to get me to approve of Marianne joining the Deep Roads expedition?”

“No,” he said. “All your concerns are valid. I can’t guarantee it’s safe. We both know that.”

“Then… why help me?”

“I told you,” he said. He grinned. “I know potential when I see it.”

She paused. She closed the inventory book. “Alright. You have a deal.” Pouring a little more whiskey into her glass, she glanced up. “Tell me one thing: you just admitted you can’t guarantee the Deep Roads would be safe.”

“Because I can’t."

“And yet you honestly think I should let my sister go down there with you.”

Varric grimaced and tugged his earring. “Look: I get why you’re worried. I really do. But it’s not like she’s safer out here, with Meredith Stannard cracking down and everything.”

Elinor set her chin on her hand. It wasn’t what she wanted to hear, but he was right. As Aveline had pointed out, she sometimes forgot that Marianne was facing much higher stakes than the rest of them.

“And,” he added slowly, looking away, “I wouldn’t normally say this, but…  the little brother in me says you should let _her_ be the one to choose.”

Elinor let that sink in. She sighed. “You’re right. I just… I don’t like what she’s becoming.”

“What is she becoming?” Varric asked.

“A hired killer.”

Varric studied her. “Really? Is that what you see?” She shrugged. “Listen. Tonight alone, Hawke pushed your friend Aveline into confronting corruption in the city at almost the highest level. She stopped a group of mercenaries from recapturing an elven slave. She killed _twenty-five_ members of the Coterie, by my count--and I don’t think I need to explain to you why that’s a good thing. She stopped a robbery in progress, and then she convinced a would-be mugger that he should learn a trade instead of mugging people.” He nodded an allowance. “Mostly by mocking him, but it seem to have stuck. You know that reputable source I mentioned? The one that told me to look for Hawke?”

“Yes,” Elinor said.

“What I didn’t mention is that he’s a templar.” Elinor stiffened, but Varric continued without letting her speak. “And he _knows_ she’s an apostate, but he’s not even pursuing her. You know why? Because she’s _helping_ people. Tell me you weren’t afraid for your life tonight. She’s the one who snapped us all into action. And she doesn’t just do that for family. She does that for people she barely knows. The reason you and at least five other people in this tavern tonight are alive right now is because she is a survivor, and she wants to make sure everyone else gets the chance to be one, too. Even if they can’t save themselves.” He leaned forward. “Your sister isn’t becoming a hired killer, Blue. She’s a hero in the making.”

Elinor stared at him as he spoke. She opened her mouth, then looked at the table. After a long moment, she shook her head. “Maybe… maybe I owe her an apology,” she murmured. Varric didn’t reply. She sighed and finished her drink. She met his gaze again. “You do promise to keep an eye on her while you’re down there, don’t you?”

This time, Varric’s smile was sympathetic. “I’ll try. She’s pretty hard to keep an eye on.”

“That she is,” Elinor agreed.


	3. Hawke

Marianne Hawke would swear upon the Chant of Light itself that a budding romance was the farthest thing from her mind when she’d introduced Varric to her sister, no matter what her brother Carver believed. She hadn’t even known that _Elinor_ and _romance_ could exist in the same paragraph, let alone the same sentence. It was a mystery. There had been no childhood sweethearts for Elinor, unlike the rest of them. She hadn’t spent summers mooning over the neighbor’s son, or a village girl, or--Maker forbid--a _templar._ If she had ever fallen in love before Kirkwall, she certainly hadn’t told anyone in her family.

And yet, one morning, a few months after the whole bookkeeping arrangement began, Mother watched Elinor leave Gamlen’s house and then turned to Hawke with a faint smile. _“So,”_ she said, her voice dripping with implication.

Hawke blinked. She was the only other person in the kitchen. Carver was asleep, and Gamlen was--well. Who even knew where Gamlen was half the time? “So?” she managed to mumble around the bite of toast she’d just taken.

Mother swirled the cup of tea she was holding in her hand. “It looks like our Elinor has a bit of a crush.”

“A crush,” Hawke repeated blankly.

“Yes.”

Hawke paused. Surely Mother didn’t mean a _crush_ crush. She tried to think of what old-fashioned Blessed Age slang she could be misinterpreting, and failed. “You’re not saying she _likes_ someone, are you?”

Mother laughed at her horrified expression. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“ _Who_?”

“Didn’t you notice? Her hair is down, and she’s wearing one of her best blouses. She’s done that the last few times she went to go see him.”

Hawke nearly choked. “Varric?” she rasped when she’d finished coughing. “Varric. Varric Tethras. You think Elinor has a crush on Varric Tethras. You’re joking.”

“Not at all.” Mother’s gaze drifted to the window. “I do hope it’s mutual. It would be hard to lose her, but at least one of us should have a chance at happiness.”

“What do you mean, _‘to lose her’?”_

“Well, we can’t expect that she’d stay here if they married.”

“If they--. Mother. That doesn’t--. You can’t--.” Hawke cut herself off, taking a mental step back. The fact that Mother went right from _crush_ to _marriage_ was a problem in its own right, but that was not the main focus of Hawke’s argument here. She dropped her toast back onto its plate. “I don’t think you understand. Ellie can’t possibly _like_ Varric Tethras.”

“Why ever not?”

“Well, for one, they’re not suited to each other. Ellie likes things neat, and tidy, and… and….”

“Stable?”

 _“I_ was going to say boring.”

“Love can be unpredictable,” Mother said. “It changes a person. You might even surprise yourself one day, Marianne.”

Hawke pursed her lips. There was no polite way to tell her mother that she’d either killed or been directly involved with the killing of the last three people she’d slept with. Not on purpose, of course. It was just how things seemed to go in Kirkwall. “Besides,” she said instead, pretending her mother hadn’t spoken, “Ellie wants to go back to Ferelden. She wouldn’t pursue a relationship _here.”_

“Oh, I think you’ll find that nothing inspires the heart more than the word _shouldn’t_.” Mother’s smile was more than a little melancholy. “Do you think I planned on marrying an apostate?”

“Ellie isn’t a romantic like you,” Hawke said.

“Trust me. She likes him. A mother always knows.”

At which point Hawke rolled her eyes. _Bullshit_ , a mother always knows. There was no way Mother had known about Peaches, for example, back in Lothering, or Carver would be halfway down the aisle by now. She chalked the whole thing up to Mother wanting grandchildren. Never mind that they were an impoverished family of five, plus a dog, crammed into what felt like the smallest shack in Lowtown. No, what they definitely needed to do was add an _infant_ to their circumstances.

Still, it was nice to see Mother smile. Also fairly nice to have a conversation with her that didn’t end with Hawke slamming the door. If speculating about her children’s non-existent love lives was enough to keep her happy, then why let a little thing like reality get in the way?

 

~~

 

It was not very long before Hawke began to question herself. While Mother had been blind to Carver and Peaches, there was a teensy, tiny chance that she was a little bit right about Varric and Elinor. Two months back, Varric had invited Hawke to a weekly game of cards. Isabela joined soon after, followed by Aveline. Carver was so eager to attend that he pretended he couldn’t care less and had to be harassed into coming every week.

And despite being the least social person Hawke knew, Elinor was now a regular.

With a newly suspicious mind, Hawke kept her eyes peeled at their next game. She peeked over the top of her losing hand. (It was always a losing hand. She’d quickly learned that Isabela and Varric were terrible cheats.) It was subtle, but Elinor’s eyes really did light up whenever Varric spoke to her. And while she couldn’t read him quite as well, his tone gentled every time he turned toward her sister.

_It would be hard to lose her._

_No._ Hawke hated it. She resented the whole image of them running off together into the sunset. Here was the first contender she had for a best friend since they’d left Lothering, and, assuming things went well, she would end up losing him. Losing _both_ of them. _Shit._ She’d never had to consider what losing Elinor would be like before. She glared at her cards without seeing them, feeling dizzy at the thought of being left alone, with Carver, and _Mother,_ and _Gamlen_ of all people. She hated to admit it, but most days, Elinor was the only thing that kept her sane.

“Ugh,” she said out loud.

Varric grinned. “C’mon, Hawke. Your hand can’t be that bad.”

“Fuck you, Tethras,” she snapped.

He blinked, a little surprised, then snorted. “So this is the thanks I get for my generous hospitality.”

“I’ll thank your face if you’re not careful,” she said.

“Marianne!” Elinor exclaimed.

“Sorry,” Hawke muttered beneath her breath.

But as the night wore on, and Aveline left for her watch, and Isabela wandered downstairs to gather more drinks, Hawke’s heart softened at the clear joy on her sister’s face. It was an expression she was so unused to seeing that it washed away the bitterness in her throat. The truth was that Elinor was an angel amongst them; she asked for so little and did so much.

Sighing, she threw her cards at the table. Mother was right. One of them _did_ deserve a chance at happiness. And Maker knew it was never going to be Hawke or Carver.

The fact that Hawke was an _excellent_ matchmaker only played a _small_ role in her decision

“I fold,” she said. She stood up, wiping her hands on her vest. “Well. It’s been fun, ladies and gentlemen, but I do believe it’s time to retire for the evening. Carver?”

Carver looked at her like she was crazy. “What are you talking about? It’s barely nine.”

“We have an early morning tomorrow. Sundermount, remember? And you’ve been out of coin for half an hour.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Ellie still has money.”

“Then Varric can walk her home.”

Varric seemed confused as well. “Wait. But aren’t I coming up Sundermount with you guys?”

Hawke shrugged casually, as if she hadn’t considered. “Don’t bother. I know how much you like fighting, but you do hate the outdoors. And I have a friend who owes me a favor. Come on, Margaret.”

Carver grumbled something about his name, but, oaf that he was, did as he was asked and stood. “Night, Varric. Ellie.”

“Good night,” they echoed.

Once they were outside, Carver threw Hawke a sidelong glance that she caught out of the corner of her eye. “What was that all about?” he asked.

“Just tired of losing all my money to a pirate and a dwarf,” she replied.

“Sure,” Carver said, clearly not believing her. He did not press it, however, and that night, when Ellie slipped in an hour after the rest of the house went to bed, Hawke cracked an eye open and grinned.

 

~~

 

The next morning was spent lumbering up the side of a mountain to return some sort of enchanted amulet to a Dalish clan, which had been given to Hawke by way of a dragon. (She really did get herself into the oddest messes.) Lost in thought, she wandered ahead, making quick work of the terrain. Carver caught up with her while the others lagged behind.

“Have you gone mad?” he snapped.

“Possibly,” Hawke said, still thinking of the dragon. She dragged herself into the present. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Why are we bringing the elf along?”

“Fenris?” Hawke said, glancing back. The elf in question was glaring at Isabela. Or at least, she assumed he was. Frankly, all his expressions looked pretty much the same to her, with varying degrees of eyebrow intensity. This one seemed particularly glare-y. “Well, we’re going to see the Dalish, aren’t we?” Carver wasn’t buying it, so she added, “Plus he’s good with a sword.”

“You’ve heard him talk about mages.”

“Mmm. Yes. A little prickly, isn’t he?” Hawke chuckled to herself. “Pun intended. Because, you know. He’s actually covered in things that could prick you.” She found her brother giving her an incredulous look. “What? We needed a fourth person, and Aveline was busy. Clearly, he doesn’t have _that_ much of a problem with magic. He paid me. And he agreed to come along with us today.”

“Varric offered to come last night.”

Hawke shrugged. “Elinor is working on bookkeeping today.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“When _he’s_ free, and _she’s_ doing bookkeeping, then _he_ goes and sees her.”

“...so?” Carver asked blankly.

Hawke glanced back to see how far behind Isabela and Fenris were, then gave Carver a smirk, lowering her voice. “Look. She has a crush on him. I’d like them to spend more _quality time_ together. If you catch my drift.”

Carver’s narrowed eyes widened. “Oh, no. No, no, no. Don’t you start.”

“Start what?” Hawke asked innocently.

“Meddling.”

“Meddling!” Hawke exclaimed with a laugh. “I don’t meddle, Margaret.”

 _“Ugh._ Please don’t call me that.”

“I aid,” Hawke continued, ignoring him. “I abet. I _assist.”_

“Maker’s breath,” Carver muttered. “You planned this. You introduced them on purpose.”

“Oh, I did not!”

“This’ll be Peaches all over again.”

“Oh-ho! You wish. If I recall correctly, you were singing a different tune right after I locked you two in that barn two summers ago.”

Carver flushed a deep shade of scarlet. “I--,” he stammered. “That’s--that’s not the point.”

“Is she still writing you love letters?” Hawke teased.

“How did you--?” He stopped walking and grabbed her arm. “Maker’s breath, Marianne. Have you been reading my mail again?”

“What’s all this?” Isabela called from behind. “I heard something about peaches, and now Carver’s face has gone bright red, so it _must_ be good.”

“Just fondly reminiscing about Carver’s ex-girlfriend,” Hawke said.

“She was never my girlfriend!” Carver said.

“Ex-lover,” Hawke offered.

Isabela gave Carver a once-over. “A _lover?_ This charmer?”

“I helped,” Hawke explained.

“You _didn’t help,_ Marianne,” Carver said sternly. “That’s the point. You badgered the both of us, until….” He snapped his mouth shut. “Well. Anyway, even after it ended, all the girls in Lothering thought we were soulmates, or something. They wouldn’t look at me twice.”

“Let’s be honest, Margaret, they wouldn’t have looked twice at you before Peaches, either.”

Carver grunted, shoving Hawke as he let go of her. “Forget it. This isn’t worth it. Just leave Ellie alone, will you?”

“Ellie?” Isabela said, her eyes brightening. She gave Hawke a pleased look. “You’re setting up Elinor with someone?”

Hawke gave her brother a look. “Thanks a lot, Margaret.”

“What?” Carver said. “You’re the one who told me she has a crush.”

“Does she now?” Isabela said, her smile widening.

“She doesn’t,” Hawke lied. Badly.

Isabela hummed her skepticism. “It’s always the quiet ones.”

“Is this conversation truly necessary?” Fenris asked.

“Yes,” Isabela said, just as Carver said, _“No.”_

“Fenris is right,” Hawke said. “Let’s get moving.” She held up the amulet. “I have high hopes for this one. Maybe someone will finally teach me to shapeshift into a dragon?”

“... _what?”_ Fenris said, his eyebrows sinking to new depths above the horrified look in his eyes.

“It’s a fun story, I’ll tell you all about it some time,” Hawke replied lightly. “Come on, team. Chop, chop.”

Carver scowled a moment longer before stalking off ahead. As soon as he and Fenris were out of hearing distance, Hawke lowered her voice, glancing at Isabela. “So. Do you want to hear more about Peaches?”

“Oh, _yes please.”_

 

~~

 

“Do I really have to live here?” the Dalish elf named Merrill asked, her big green eyes taking in the dilapidated alienage.

Hawke felt a sympathetic twinge as she watched her. _No_ , she wanted to say. _No. Live wherever you want. Run, if you have to. And when the fuckers come to take you, make them regret they ever learned your name._

She could almost hear Bethany’s voice. _Not everyone is_ you _, Marianne_.

“Yes,” she said weakly. “Sorry. All the elves do.”

Merrill peered over her shoulder, to where Fenris and Carver were waiting. Isabela had split somewhere between the Wounded Coast and the docks. _“He_ doesn’t live here, does he?” she asked.

“No,” Hawke told Merrill. “Fenris lives in Hightown. But he’s taking a risk. And you’re a mage.”

“A bloo--” Fenris began.

“Yes, thank you,” Hawke said, cutting him off quickly. The square was deserted, but they were still in a public place. In _Kirkwall._  “A mage with elven blood, as Fenris was _undoubtedly_ going to point out.” Fenris gave her what she was beginning to call _glare number four_ before looking away, his hair falling slightly into his eyes. She had to admit, even with the excessive glaring, he _was_ handsome. Maybe if a glare looked as good on her as it did on him, she would glare at people more often. She focused, turning back to Merrill. “Luckily, alienages tend to protect their own. You’re less likely to end up in the Circle here. You don’t want to draw more attention to yourself, do you?”

“No,” Merrill said, deflating. Her gaze darted over the walls, travelling up the large tree sitting at the center--Hawke couldn’t remember what it was called. “Oh, this is all _so_ confusing! And I’ve only been here an hour.” The elf looked even tinier when she crossed her arms. Finally, she looked up at Hawke. “I don’t suppose you could come visit me? When you have some time, of course. I could make us tea. If I can find tea. Do humans drink tea?” She continued before Hawke could reply. “Oh, I suppose you must. You have those strange little teacups, don’t you? Unless they’re called teacups for some other reason.” She looked down, her eyelashes fluttering. “Sorry. I’ll… stop talking. It’s just, I don’t know. It might be nice to have a little company, from time to time.”

“Of course,” Hawke said. “I don't know any other mages here. And you can come visit me and Carver, if you’d like.”

Merrill smiled back. “I think I would like that,” she agreed.

“We have a weekly card game,” Hawke went on. “On Thursdays. At a local pub called the Hanged Man. You should come.” She glanced over Merrill’s shoulder. Fenris had moved firmly into glowering territory. “You should both come,” she offered as an olive branch. Carver scoffed. “You know. Good way to make friends in the city.”

“What an odd name for a place,” Merrill said.

Hawke paused. “The alienage?” she asked.

“The Hanged Man,” Merrill clarified. “I wonder why they called it that.”

“Oh. Yes. We have some theories.”

Merrill swallowed, glancing around the square. “Can you… can you tell me which one is Thursday again? Is that the one with the bells?”

They left a few minutes later. Fenris fell into step with Hawke. “Tell me. Why do I find myself unsurprised to see you associating with a blood mage?”

“ _Associating_?” Hawke let out a laugh. “It’s hardly a demonic ritual. She invited me over for tea.”

Fenris looked unimpressed. “You joke, but she has had dealings with demons.”

“Come on,” she replied. “She’s _adorable.”_ Fenris did not say anything. “What, you think that’s an act?”

“No,” Fenris said darkly. “Worse. I think it is not. She is taking risks, but she does not understand the consequences.”

Hawke rolled her eyes. She turned to look at her brother, who was trailing them silently. “What about you, Margaret? You’ve been awfully quiet. Any opinions to share on my newest acquaintance?” He frowned. “What, no comment about my moral deficiency? My lack of judgment? The way a cute elf can seduce me with her womanly wiles?”

Carver stuttered. “Ah-- no.”

Hawke narrowed her eyes, slowing her steps. “Really?”

He shrugged, stopping beside her. “She seems… nice,” he said.

Hawke blinked slowly, then glanced at Fenris. “Did you hear that?” she asked. “Am I dreaming? Are we in the Fade?” Carver opened his mouth, and Hawke held up her hand. “Stop it. Don’t ruin the moment. I need to savor this.” She breathed in, closing her eyes dramatically.

“Oh, Maker’s breath, Marianne,” Carver complained.

Her stomach rumbled. “Okay, Varric should be back at the Hanged Man by now. Let’s go grab lunch. Then we can find the entrance to the old Amell estate.” She shot Fenris a grin. “Want to come with? From what I hear, we’ll get to kill a couple slavers.”

Fenris’s expressions relaxed slightly. “I… would not be opposed,” he said.  

“Great,” she said, hoping that’d been the Fenris version of enthusiasm. “It’s a plan.”

 

~~

 

Hawke tried to pretend that her mana wasn’t aching as they reached the second floor of the old estate, walking into a beautifully decorated room. One of the slavers in the basement had been a mage, and he’d hit her with a dispel. She should have expected that. _Dumbass_ , she thought to herself. _Tevinter slavers_ should have been a dead giveaway.  

Well, the mistake was made. There was no changing the past. Now she wouldn’t be able to summon anything stronger than a wisp of light for the rest of the day. Hopefully, the Sharps would keep to themselves that evening. If not, she still had the dog, and the brother, and the blade on her staff, in a pinch.

“Oh,” Carver said, grabbing her attention. She followed his eyes to the corner. There was a wooden chest. It was almost identical to the chest their mother had kept in Lothering, the one where she’d put all their important documents--letters, their father’s will, a certificate of marriage. Before they’d fled, Elinor had folded the papers and stuffed them down her shirt, while their mother had complained about losing the chest. _Typical Mother_ , she'd thought at the time, exchanging a look with Elinor and Bethany.

There was something a little tragic about realizing that box had probably been more important to her than they’d realized. A relic from the young life of Leandra Amell. Hawke wondered if it had been dragged across Ferelden by her homesick mother for a decade, or if she had ordered it especially from Kirkwall once they’d finally settled in Lothering. Hawke couldn’t remember seeing it at any of their other homes.

It was a question she could never ask, though. Talking to Mother about their old life was just asking for trouble, plus a lecture about Bethany. Maybe Elinor would know.

“It’ll be in here,” she told them, walking forward. She opened the chest and rifled through a stack of papers, finally locating one that looked like a will. As her eyes scanned it, she frowned.

“Well,” Hawke said with a sigh, handing her brother the paper. “Looks like Ellie was right.”

Carver’s eyes rushed over the words, his lips growing thin. “That’s not surprising,” he said. “Disappointing, but not surprising.”

“Your uncle’s a real bastard, isn’t he?” Varric said.

“That’s putting it lightly,” Hawke said.

Fenris glanced between the siblings. “Am I missing something?”

“Our grandparents left everything to Mother,” Hawke explained to him. “Not Gamlen. Their house, their title, their fortune--everything.”

“Ah,” Fenris said flatly. “And this would be the fortune that Gamlen squandered.”

“The very same,” Hawke said.

“She’ll be pleased they didn’t hate her in the end, at least,” Carver said.

“And the Viscount will consider this evidence of inheritance,” Hawke said. “Come on, let’s get back. I hope Ellie has a plan.”

The four of them made their way down to the cellar, Hawke taking two stairs at a time. As she reached the dirt floor, a movement caught the corner of her eye. A figure leapt at her. She frantically tried to raise a barrier that wouldn’t come.

“Hawke!” Varric exclaimed, and that was all the warning she got before two daggers went deep into her back.

She made a choked sound. The _thwack_ of Varric’s crossbow sounded beside her. She could hear her brother’s sword connecting with a pair of knives as she collapsed.

 _Fuck_. She tried to take in a breath and wheezed. Her lung--it must have been punctured. She could not heal. She could hardly move. Pain scorched through her body, burning the wounds on her back. The ceiling spun above her.

In a few seconds, the fight was over, the rogue down. Someone was kneeling beside her. She thought it might be Carver.

“ _Marianne_. She’s not healing.”

“She’s losing blood,” a distant voice said flatly.

“I can _see_ that, thank you,” her brother said. She forced her eyes open. Carver stared down at her, his face pale. She could taste salt on her tongue. His eyes searched hers, panicked. “Why aren't you healing? Marianne, _please.”_ There was no way she could explain. _Dumbass, dumbass, dumbass_ , she told herself, a steady beat to match the throbbing in her back.

“Oh. Shit. The Warden,” she heard Varric say. “There’s a healer nearby. Wait here.”

“ _Where am I going to go_?” Carver snapped. Varric chose wisely not to answer that. Or maybe he was already too far away to respond. Hawke let her eyes shut again, ignoring her brother. His words faded into a hum. The throbbing was slower now, seconds between each pulse.

_Dumbass. Dumbass._

_Dumbass._

_Du--_

 

_~~_

 

She hadn’t even realized that she’d lost consciousness until she was ripped right back to reality. Waves of magic were coursing through her body--warm magic. Fade magic. Not her own.

Her wounds were cooling. Her mana was healed. It felt _marvelous._

A pair of brown eyes hovered over her, the color of whiskey, or bark after a rainstorm. They crinkled at the edges.

“There you are.” The man’s voice was soft. Fereldan. She took a ragged, grateful breath, trying to focus. “Good. Breathe for me.”

The throbbing in her back had lessened to a smolder. She swallowed the blood in her mouth and took another breath.

“Is it working?” someone asked.

“So far,” the man said.

“She… lost a lot of blood,” Carver said.

“It’s alright,” the man told him. “She’s going to be fine.” He smiled down at her. A strand of golden hair fell into his long face. “You’re going to be fine.”

She realized her head was in his lap, one of his hands tucked under her back to press the magic into her wounds. He closed his eyes, pushing another wave through, exhaling as he did. The world seemed to glow blue-white for a moment. It was a strange type of magic. She wasn’t sure she’d seen it before.

As the light faded, his eyes met hers again, and she felt a heat in her stomach that had nothing to do with the spell.

“Better?” he asked. She nodded. “Do you think you can tell me your name?”

It took her a moment to find her tongue. _What was her name?_ “Marianne.”

“Marianne,” the man said to her. “Hello. I’m Anders.”

 

~~

 

“--so there she is, lying in the cellar of her grandfather’s estate, bleeding all over this guy, and he’s trying his damndest to keep her from dying. Carver’s about to have a fit. Which was actually kind of endearing, all things considered. Fenris is being….” Varric hesitated.

“Fenris,” Aveline supplied. It was the next day. Hawke, Aveline, Elinor, and Varric had all convened at the Hanged Man. Elinor had expressed concern at Hawke drinking so soon after her injury, but Aveline pointed out that at least that would keep her from traipsing out to the Wounded Coast, where a group of Tal Vashoth were unknowingly waiting for a mercenary mage with two new scars on her back to come electrocute them.

“Right,” Varric agreed. “Fenris is being Fenris. Finally Hawke looks up at the guy, and you know what she says?”

Hawke rolled her eyes. “I _will_ murder you for this, you know,” she warned him.

“Go on,” Elinor said, grinning over her beer. Hawke could tell her sister was enjoying this.

Varric approximated a breathy, Fereldan whisper. “ _‘You’re sooo pretty_.’”

Aveline and Elinor burst out laughing.

“Yes, well, hardy har har,” Hawke said, folding her arms across her chest. “I’d lost a _lot_ of blood. I also told him my name was Marianne.”

“In your defense, your name _is_ Marianne,” Aveline pointed out.

“The important thing,” Hawke said, pulling her mug toward her, “is that he still has those Deep Roads maps. Varric forgot to ask for them.”

“Yeah, I was kinda busy watching you _not die_.”

“Which means I'll have to go get those from him. I was thinking of heading down there tonight.” Hawke’s eyes went across three amused faces. “To get the maps. That we need. For the expedition.”

“You poor thing,” Elinor said dryly.

“I’m sure you’re just dreading it,” Varric added.

“All by your lonesome,” Aveline said with a shake of her head.

Hawke pouted. “I swear, I’m usually more subtle.”

Varric laughed at that. “Sure you are, kid.”

“Hawke,” Elinor said, her face growing a little serious. “I'm glad you find him so attractive, but try not to get ahead of yourself.”

“Ahead of myself?”

Elinor gave her a look. “I mean maybe he's not interested. Maybe he's taken. Maybe he's--”

Aveline cut in. “A runaway Grey Warden _and_ an apostate. Which means at least two large military organizations are after him.”

“That,” Elinor said.

“Well,” Varric said, spreading his hands, a smug grin on his face, “she can’t really get on a high horse about the _apostasy_ , can she?”

“Oh, Maker take you,” Hawke grumbled, reaching for her coin purse. She'd taught him the word “ _apostasy_ ” two days earlier and bet him a sovereign he couldn't work it into a sentence. “Here.”

He caught the coin she tossed him. “Much obliged.”

“Anyway,” Hawke said, turning back to her sister. “You know I'm not looking to get attached.” Elinor gave her a doubtful look. “No, really. What about my lifestyle says ‘ _ready to settle down’?_ Is it the refugee status? Constantly getting chased by templars? My plan to head down to the Deep Roads?” The beer had left her a little giddy; she’d only had two, but with the blood loss from yesterday, her tolerance was completely thrown off. By her estimate, a full quarter of her veins had to be liquid courage at this point. If there was ever a time to go speak with the mage who saved her--and Maker’s balls, he _had_ been pretty--it was now.

“Well, be careful in Darktown, at least,” Elinor warned, relenting.

“Yeah,” Varric agreed. “Keep in mind you have to be alive to flirt with him.”

“I’m using the old Amell passage,” Hawke said. The manor was empty now, though its state of disrepair made it all but unlivable. Unless you were Fenris, she supposed. “It opens up right next to his clinic. I’ll be fine.” She realized something and gave her sister a wicked grin before turning to the guardsman. “But Aveline, would you like to escort me to Hightown and ease my sister’s mind?”

Aveline shrugged, then polished off her own beer. “Sure. I have an early patrol anyway.”

Varric gave Hawke a salute with his mug. “If you’re not home by midnight, I’m sending a search party.”

“How would you even know whether I was home or not?”

He tapped the table, grinning. “I have my sources.”

Hawke groaned. “Are _all_ my friends spying on me?” She held up a hand. “Wait. Don’t answer that. I don’t want to know. I have enough worries without thinking Fenris could be peering through some window, waiting for me to slice open a vein.”

“There’s an image,” Aveline muttered.

Hawke waved over her shoulder as she left. “Have fun, you two.”

At the door, Aveline looked over her shoulder. “Maybe I should have stayed for another round.”

“Oh,” Hawke said, amused. “You really shouldn’t have. I have _plans.”_

Aveline met her gaze, her eyes widening a fraction as she understood. “ _Them?_ ”

“Fingers crossed,” Hawke said.

Aveline looked back again, then shook her head. “Maker. I don’t know, Hawke. Are you sure?”

“I'm always sure about everything, Aveline,” Hawke replied, sticking her chin in the air. “Now hurry up, you, I've got a pretty apostate to seduce.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you still following from the previous version of this fic, yes, the last part of this chapter is a complete repeat. I always liked the Anders-as-Willoughby stuff, so that probably won't change too much. 
> 
> Thank you so, so much for reading. This is the most challenging of my current projects, really, with all the POVs, and the three acts, and fitting Sense & Sensibility into those three acts... ugh. But DA2 is my favorite game, and I do love Hawke _so much_ in all their forms. It means a lot to me that literally anyone else is on board. 
> 
> Shout out to Aethusa, who continues to be an amazing, flexible beta. Any mistakes in this chapter are my own - we couldn't connect for it, but she did edit the original version, and her support is a big reason why I didn't just stop at one fic :)


	4. Anders

Anders pulled down the bar, locking his clinic for the night. He leaned his forehead against the wooden door and closed his eyes.  _ Just for a moment, _ he told himself wearily. The day was over, but work was never really  _ done  _ when it came to the clinic. There was always a chance that he'd get a midnight emergency. And there were chores to do. Beds needed changing. Counters needed wiping. Potions needed filling.

_ Potions, _ he thought, frowning. He opened his eyes, thinking. The new girl hadn’t shown again, which meant he’d be mixing them himself. That made it three days running. Anders tried to remember her name. Nell? Netty?  Something that began with an N. Slight little thing, couldn’t be more than fifteen. Lirene had warned him that she’d be a bit flighty.

Willing himself into motion, he grabbed a tin bucket from under one of the cots. The water pump in the back of the room was still finicky. He’d need to bring that up to Lirene next time she came by. He pushed the bucket under the faucet and began to jiggle the lever. The gears locked and a splash of water landed in the bucket.

As the bucket filled, his thoughts drifted to Karl. It had been three weeks now without any word. He prayed that nothing had happened to him. If something had gone wrong--if it was  _ his fault _ \--Maker, the thought made him sick. And the way Karl had described the Gallows--

A shiver went down his spine. The hairs on the back of his neck stood, as they always did when Justice stirred.  _ One more day,  _ he reminded them both.

When Anders fled Amaranthine, he went north almost out of habit. Kirkwall had no Warden outpost, which was one advantage, but it was also a place he knew well, despite never having been. He knew which boats to take. He knew who to bribe to get inside the city. He’d read up about the Knight-Commander. All the research he’d done when Karl had transferred could finally be put to use.

The plan had never been to stay, though. Back then--back before the Blight--the plan had been that he’d help Karl escape, and then they’d go north together. To Rivain, maybe. Someplace they could have a life.

Now? Now he was-- _ well. _ Blighted. Possessed. A wanted man. It had been years since he’d last seen Karl. He wasn’t sure he could look his friend in the eye and tell him what he’d done. What he’d  _ become. _ Anders would help Karl get out of the city, but he himself would stay behind. If Karl was right, the Gallows was truly a place of injustice, more so than any other Circle in Thedas. He and Justice could pay their penance here. They could live out however many years Anders’s body had left till his Calling, healing the poor and giving aid to the mages. Kirkwall was where they could do the most good, together.

He just wished it wasn’t so lonely. Though with a spirit of Justice swirling in his mind, maybe that was a blessing in disguise.

When the bucket was full, he poured it into a cast iron pot. There was no Nell or Netty to frighten, so instead of lighting a fire, he touched the side, letting his magic warm the water to disinfect it. Like everything else in Darktown, there was never a guarantee that the water was safe. He leaned his head to the side, watching the water come to boil. 

Another thought struck him. “Damn,” he said quietly. He left the pot and squatted next to a chest where he kept glass vials. With three days of supplies missing, he might not have enough left for the twenty potions he made nightly. He began to rifle through them, pulling out the vials and lining them up on the back table, deep in thought. He went back to the chest to grab a few more.

There was a squeak of floorboard behind him. He turned sharply, almost hitting his head on the lid.

Nothing moved.

Suddenly, the clinic felt too small. He strained his ears for a noise, but there was only silence.

“Hello?” he asked, wincing when no one answered. Speaking to empty rooms brought back less than pleasant memories of solitary. He closed his eyes and focused on the steady hum of Justice. It helped him ignore his own sudden awareness of the dark, enclosed space around them. Unlike Anders, Justice did not find small spaces unnerving.

Justice agreed.  **_I like the silence._ **

Anders snorted, his eyes still closed. “Then you should have stuck with Kristoff,” he said out loud.

“You know,” a voice said behind him, making him jump and spin around, drawing his staff, “they say talking to yourself is actually a sign of intelligence. I always thought it was insanity.”

It was the apostate he’d healed the day before.  _ Marianne. _ She was leaning against the wall near the entrance, a smile playing on her lips.

Anders dragged in a breath. “I thought I barred the door,” he managed. His pulse still thudded in his ears, much to Justice’s confusion.

**_She is not a templar._ **

_ I know that, _ Anders thought back, gritting his teeth. The spirit didn’t quite understand the physical aspects of emotions. He was confused when feelings lingered for no reason.

“Maybe you did,” Marianne said, waving a hand in the air. “Surprise!” For a moment he couldn’t reply and her eyes became curious. “Are you alright?”

“Maker preserve me,” Anders finally got out, pinching his nose. He gulped in another breath, shaking his head. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I'll be fine in a minute. I’m just--I get a little claustrophobic when I think I’m being watched.” He pulled down his hand, adding, “Especially in the dark.”

Marianne raised an eyebrow. “So… you moved to a place called Darktown.”

“Yes, I recognize the irony,” Anders said, slightly annoyed. He returned his staff to his back. Truth be told, he was working his way up in the world. Darktown at least opened out to the harbor. That beat the Deep Roads, and the Deep Roads beat solitary confinement.

_ Andraste’s flaming knickerweasels,  _ he thought to himself.  _ Sometimes it’s like the Maker wants me underground. _

Marianne pulled away from the wall. He studied her as his heart rate returned to normal. Now that she wasn’t bleeding out on a cellar floor, he could see she was an attractive woman--tall, with wide shoulders and hips. She had a boyish look to her face, as if she were on the verge of a mischievous prank. Her cheeks had taken on a healthy hue, and her eyes were sharper and focused now, sky-blue.  

_ You’re so pretty,  _ she’d whispered. Anders swallowed. Though that was when she was delirious and probably suffering from shock.

Still. If he’d met a woman like her before Justice--

**_Irrelevant._ **

_ Oh come on, _ Anders thought, flicking his eyes down to Marianne’s body.  _ It’s perfectly normal to notice these things. _

**_Irrelevant._ **

Anders sighed, looking away. Next time he ruined his entire life by acting as a living host for a spirit, he decided he’d pick something a little less austere. Maybe Learning. Wouldn’t  _ that  _ be nice.

He could feel Justice recoil, offended.

“So,” Marianne said, interrupting his thoughts. “You’re down here alone every night.”

His eyes went back to her face. “Most of the time.”  _ Relatively speaking. _ Anders was never truly alone these days. But there was no reason to bring  _ that _ up. “Sometimes Lirene sends help.”

“No wonder you're so jumpy,” she said. “You should get a watchdog.”

“I’m--ah, not much of a dog person.”

“Not a dog person?” she said, amused. “Shame. No wonder they kicked you out of Ferelden.”

Anders cleared his throat. “Yes. Well. Besides insulting people’s taste in pets, and some light breaking and entering, may I ask what brings you to Darktown this time of night?”

Marianne pouted, placing a hand on one of her hips. “Breaking and entering. You make it sound so aggressive. Can’t a girl just lurk in a Darktown corner, spying on her new apostate friend who hates being spied on when she feels like it?”

He felt the corner of his lip twitch in amusement, despite himself. “I guess everyone needs a hobby.” He looked down, rubbing his shoulder with his hand. “Usually my late-night visitors are a bit more… maimed. Or they’re less….” 

_ Alluring.  _

**_Distracting._ **

He licked his lips. “Cordial.”

“I bet,” she said. “You’re not exactly a closely-guarded secret, are you? Do you get templars down here?”

“Not too often. Thankfully. Darktown is a bit off-the-grid for the likes of them.”

She smiled. “Well, you definitely have an impressive operation. I’d have thought they’d shut you down.”

He chuckled. “It’s only been three months. Check back on me in the spring.”

“Maybe I will,” she said. For a moment, neither spoke. “I wanted to say thank you,” she told him finally, approaching the table. She stopped at the edge, leaning on it. The way she stood made her robes go tight across her chest. He thought she might be doing it on purpose, but he wasn't going to complain. “Both for saving my life and for taking care of my little mana problem. I owe you.” Her thick lips curled, and he glanced at them, when she added in a lowered voice, “I thought… maybe… I could give you a hand.”

_ Maker. _ Anders was not proud of where his mind went at those words. Justice radiated disappointment, the back of his neck bitter cold in an instant.

She pushed herself off the table as she continued brightly. “Around the clinic. I hear you work for free. Must be difficult to get help.”

_ Oh.  _ He cleared his throat, looking over at the row of containers he’d been lining up. “I suppose. You could help me with the potions,” he said. “I try to have at least twenty potions on hand a day.” He gestured toward the cots. “Most of the patients can’t afford the stuff, so I make it myself.”

“That’s good of you,” she said. Her smile widened. “I like good men.”

That was definitely on purpose. Anders felt his eyebrows climbing. 

**_Irrelevant._ **

He rubbed a temple. “I’ll get the supplies for the potions,” he said as he turned away.

 

~~

  
  


True to her word, Marianne was no herbalist. It took her a few tries to get the potion right, and it was one of his simpler recipes. Then again, he’d always had a bit of a knack for mixing things. Eventually, she got the hang of it. They worked side by side, muddling elfroot with a bit of charred leaf, and a Tevinter mineral called carnelian. He found that it offset the numbing effect of the elfroot.

“So, how long have you been out?” Anders asked as they worked.

Marianne raised an eyebrow. “Out?”

“Yes,” Anders said. “Of the Circle, I mean.”

“Oh. All my life.”

Anders froze, looking up. “You’ve  _ never been _ in a circle?”

“No,” she said. “Though my father was, before I was born. He and my mother ran away together.”

Anders felt Justice stir in him, something like approval brewing.  _ Never been in a Circle. _ The implications bubbled over in his brain. He had to push the thoughts aside and focus as she spoke of her father’s death, her voice going flat.

“I’m sorry,” Anders said. “Your father sounds like he was a good man.”

“He was,” she said, looking down at the vial in her hand. “He protected me--us, really. He’d have never let--.” She swallowed. She corked the vial, picking up the next one. “Anyway. Now I’m the only mage left in the family.”

“And your family protects you?” Anders asked.

Marianne bristled. “I protect myself.”

“No, but--I meant, there are laws against harboring apostates,” he explained. “You live at home.” She nodded. Anders picked up his next vial, pouring a little substance in. “You’re lucky you have them. My father was eager to be rid of me when they first found out.”

She glanced up, her face softening. “Oh,” she said. “Anders. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not surprising,” Anders said. “It happens every day. Families, ripped apart. Loved one pitted against loved one. People with hearts and souls, locked away in the darkness for being mages, or worse. Tortured. Killed. Severed from the very thing that  **_makes them people.”_ **

His last words seemed to come from far away, and he gave himself a moment, pressing his lips together.

_ “‘Magic exists to serve man and not rule over him ’,”  _ he said, this time more quietly. “I’m not one to question the Chant. But I can’t believe Andraste ever meant this.” He shook his head, putting down his vial. “When those that are meant to protect us come to oppress us, we can no longer consider a system working.”

“I agree,” she said, quietly. “But maybe they weren’t ever meant to protect us.”

He glanced up, meeting her bright blue eyes. They stared at each other for a moment, his eyes wide, and hers enchanting.

“That’s, ah, not the typical reaction,” he admitted with a weak chuckle, looking away.

“So, what would your version of the world look like?”

“I beg your pardon?” he asked.

“You don’t like the system we have. What would you do instead?”

He thought carefully. “The Circle  _ must  _ be destroyed. I know that.”

“Yes, we’ve established that,” Marianne said, sounding amused. “But what comes after that?”

Anders shrugged. “All mages are free to live as they choose.”

“All of them?” she asked. “Even the maleficarum?”

He pursed his lips. “Justice must be served first. Bad mages can be dealt with after.”

“Bad mages,” she repeated.

“Well, you can’t group us all together,” he said. He watched her examine a vial as Justice shifted within him, not sure what to make of this conversation. Spirits rarely troubled themselves with the smaller details, and if he were honest, his focus was more on the short term. He looked back down at his hands. “Maleficarum are a danger, but they’re a danger that can be dealt with. A threat separate from our plight. Making the question one and the same…. It’s dangerous. It’s the kind of debate that leads us straight back to the Circle.”

“But it’s the kind of debate the leaders of your new world would need to have, isn’t it?” she asked. “You know. When do we lock them up? Do we go by intent, or by action? Is past behavior taken into consideration? Length of time since they committed a wrong? And how would you stop us from sliding back into old patterns?” She paused, twirling a vial with her fingers. “You know, yesterday I met a blood mage.”

“This is Kirkwall,” he said dryly. “I’m surprised you didn’t meet seven.”

She let out a laugh, a throaty sound that curled around him warmly. “True. But this one was nice. She even invited me over for tea.”

He drew his eyebrows together, glancing at her worriedly. “Nice or not, I'd be cautious there. Blood magic is dangerous.”

“Ah,” she said. She put down her vial and crossed her arms, leaning back in her chair. “Because it could harm people. It breaks the rules. Not to mention that it gives the rest of us a reputation, doesn't it? Which places her in the bad mage bucket.” She tilted her head at him, curious. “You and I? We’re apostates. We're supposed to be in a Circle. And if your experiences are anything like mine, we may have killed--oh, I don’t know. A templar or two.” Gooseflesh broke out on his arms. “In self-defense, of course, but at the end of the day, they were just men and women who were just doing their jobs.” She lifted her chin. “Does that mean we’re also bad mages?” He didn’t reply, fixing his gaze on his vial. “Or is the line a little to the left? Would I need to consort with a demon first to fall into your  _ ‘bad mage’  _ bucket?”

“I didn’t mean--” he began. 

He stopped, glaring at the table, the glass container clenched his hand. The conversation was getting a little too close for comfort. He cleared his throat, changing the subject.

“What’s your plan to stay out of the Circle?” he asked.

She watched him. As he pushed another cork into another bottle, he worried that she'd press him. But she indulged the shift in topic instead.

“Money,” she said, sitting up straight. Her hands returned to her work. “I’m planning to go to the Deep Roads.”

“What, voluntarily?” he asked, his eyebrows rising. 

“There’s an expedition.” Her eyes snuck a glance at him. “Actually, I was hoping you might be able to help me.”

“Why would that be?” he asked carefully.

“You’re a Warden, aren't you?”

_ Ah.  _ “Yes,” he said in a wary tone. No sense hiding it. “Or… I was. Once. But I’m not going with you, if that’s what you mean.” He shook his head. “Maker willing, I’ll never go down there again.”

“Right. But you  _ do  _ have maps, don’t you? Those could come in handy.”

He shot her a glance.  _ Maker.  _ How could she possibly know that? He’d taken them when he fled, just in case, but he’d never intended to  _ use  _ them.

“I probably shouldn’t share those,” he admitted slowly. “I’m already breaking about a dozen Warden rules just by being here, and--if they run into you--if they find the maps…. Well, I don’t want to attract their attention. They're not going to be happy when they find me, that's for sure. The only way I could--” A thought occurred to him. He met her gaze. “Although--a favor for a favor. How does that sound?”

“Depends,” Marianne replied. “What’s the favor?”

“I imagine a woman who's been an apostate her whole life would be pretty good at avoiding templars.”

“You could say that.”

“There’s a mage I know here,” he said. “In the Circle. Karl Thekla. He… he may be in grave danger.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “You want to me to break someone out of the Gallows,” she guessed.

Anders rushed to explain. “With my help, of course. I know it’s a big thing to ask--”

“Oh, I’m not opposed,” she said, looking exactly the opposite of opposed. Her eyes had become very bright. She leaned forward. “When? Do you have a plan?”

He nodded. “I’m meeting him at the chantry,” he explained. “Tomorrow night. It’s the perfect place--mages are allowed in there to pray, on request. We just need to get in and slip him out.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal,” she said. She looked pleased as she picked up the final vial and began to pour the potion. “Helping someone escape from the Gallows…. I don’t know. It feels like I’m paying back whoever helped Father escape.” She smirked. “And if we get to kill some templars, then all’s the better.”

He let out a startled chuckle. Irrelevant curves aside, he could tell Justice was beginning to approve.

“Then the maps are yours,” he said.

  
  


~~

  
  


Anders sat in front of the tin bucket with his head hung low, a dripping rag clutched in his hands. The cloth had turned pink from blood. It was the color of a rose, or a sunrise.

Or a brand burnt into a man’s skin.

They had been too late. His eyes closed painfully.

He had killed people before. Quite a few, actually--mostly after the Joining. Not just Darkspawn. He'd expected the Darkspawn. The people had been a bit of a surprise. Catherine Cousland had been an efficient commander, but no one could accuse her of passiveness.

Justice had killed men, too. And Kristoff--Anders shuddered, wincing. Somewhere, deep, deep, deep in the recesses of Justice, bits of Kristoff still lingered, occasionally rising to his mind. Memories of a man long gone. Anders hated when they surfaced. Dead men should stay dead.

But not Karl, he thought desperately. Not Karl.

His hands shook. He was supposed to be the one who died young. The impetuous idiot who took risks like they were pies on window sills. Not Karl--patient, studious, constant Karl. He dropped the rag into the bucket. Burying his face into his palms, he began to weep.

When the floor creaked by the door a few minutes later, he didn’t even look up. He’d expected her. In his fury and shame, he'd abandoned her at the chantry. Wiping his cheeks with a sleeve, he gulped in air.

“This time, I know I barred the door,” he said, aiming for wry, and landing somewhere between tragic and wet. The cot shifted as Marianne sat down beside him. She didn’t speak immediately, not until his lungs made him drag in another shuddering breath.

“You did the right thing,” she told him.

“I killed him.”

“It wasn’t him anymore. Not really.” He could hear her voice tremble. “If anyone killed him, it was the templars. The Chantry. The man we saw was a ghost.” She paused. “A shell.”

His throat felt thick. Speaking was hard. “I loved him,” he said anyway.

He felt her hand on his back. Her palm began to make round motions. “I know. Which is why it had to be you,” she said. He didn’t respond. “It’s what he wanted. It’s the same thing any of us would want, isn’t it? Maker’s balls, I know it’s what I’d want if I ever--”

**_“No,”_ ** Anders said, the hum in his mind becoming a roar. The room shifted, cracks of light appearing as he jerked his head up to look at her. The world was suddenly simpler--glowing, bright, colorful. But wrong. The ache in his chest disappeared, engulfed by a burning need, the need to fix, to do better, to stop them. He heard himself, his friend, them both,  **_“No. They will not take another mage. Not as they took--. ”_ **

He jerked back his head, regaining control. His vision adjusted. Just as suddenly, the sorrow came back, deep and horrible, and the room went dark.

“Karl,” he finished, a fractured sound.

Marianne pulled him to her with both arms, pressing his face into the crook of her neck, making soft murmurs of comfort.

He took in a serrated breath. “I… I can explain,” he said. She’d already seen Justice at the chantry. Andraste preserve him, she was a mage. She probably already suspected what it meant. But she couldn't, not if she was holding him, not if she was still here.

He didn't want to tell her. He’d only known her two days, but--briefly, ever so briefly--it had felt like everything would work out. Before Karl had turned around. Before Karl had spoken. It had felt like Marianne could help him--them-- make things right.

Without Karl, the thought of losing the only other apostate he knew in this damned city filled him with a sense of dread.

But she just shushed him, gathering him closer. “Later,” she said. “Later. It’s okay.”

Grateful, he slumped against her, letting himself sob in earnest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is almost identical to the original version. 
> 
> Also, this might be a little self-indulgent or something, but just in case you're curious, I'm planning to write each of Anders's chapters to a cover of 'The House Of The Rising Sun'. I think it helps me get into his head a little more. The Fade and spirits are often compared to music, and in Awakening, Justice likes lyrium because it "sings", so I think having a consistent background song is helpful. [Here is the one for this chapter](https://youtu.be/rpisAF6UOJU?t=66). :) 
> 
> Thank you for reading!!!


	5. Fenris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning, there's some light smut (self love) toward the end!

 

Kirkwall….

Kirkwall was a strange place. Fenris had not meant to linger. And yet, here he was, nearing the end of his sixth month in the city.

He could claim that he was tired of running--and in part, that was certainly true. Once he’d realized that Danarius would follow him to the ends of the world before giving up on discovering him, he’d felt a bone-deep sense of exhaustion, followed by a burst of resolve. _Let them come, then,_ he’d told himself. _Let the man himself come and find me._

However, that was only part of the equation. Kirkwall was also the first place where he’d been able to stop. To breathe. To gather his thoughts. So much of his escape had been spent with one eye glancing over his shoulder.

Oddly enough, the City of Chains was the first place where Fenris had felt free.

It was in no small part due to the apostate, he had to admit. Another irony. Not the only irony that involved Marianne Hawke. He found that he spent a considerable amount of time studying her and her family. Whether that was a healthy impulse, he could not say. He had a poor grasp on what was and what was not healthy anymore.

There was not much to say about the uncle. Gamlen was incompetent. Fenris had known his face before he met the rest of them. A gambler one step above begging, who had a reputation for making scenes and disliking elves. The few times they saw each other, he gave the man a wide berth.

The mother sat at home in quiet mourning, or drifted through the streets of Hightown like a cloud, unanchored in a place she’d once called home. She was young enough to find employment--under fifty, if he had to guess--but no one dared suggest it, not once, despite the family’s poverty. Leandra did not work, apparently, and that was that. Fenris could not fathom how a woman like that had ever been persuaded to leave a comfortable life behind. Perhaps she had been whimsical in her youth, and the thought of enduring hardship in the name of love had held a sort of charm. Whether that charm had remained after the her mage husband’s death, he could not say.

He suspected not.

The dog was more intelligent than it appeared, but not above bribery. The first few times Fenris visited the house, it growled at him from the corner, as though he were an intruder and not a guest. Hawke gave him meat to feed it. He tried to protest, but she just laughed, insisting it would make things easier. And it did. Soon, the animal began to greet him with an enthusiasm that bordered on alarming.

The boy--for he _was_ a boy, still, regardless of his age--well, he was no great mystery. Carver was ungrateful and petulant. He complained whenever the world chose not to cater to his needs. Worse, he had decided from the start that Fenris was a threat. He stared at Fenris sometimes, his arms crossed and his face twisted into a scowl.

“Pity I can’t give you bits of meat for _that_ one,” Hawke observed one day in a dry whisper, when she caught Fenris noticing. Fenris had huffed in response.

Then there were the sisters.

Their differences were obvious. One operated on impulse; the other, restraint. Hawke’s ruddy cheeks and thick arms spoke of days spent under the sun, a heavy staff spinning in her hands, whereas Elinor sat indoors. Hawke was almost as brawny as Carver, or half the sailors down by the docks. Elinor looked like a ghost next to her siblings--reed thin and so pale that the skin beneath her eyes and on the pulse of her wrist appeared blue.

Their similarities were more subtle. Both understood people unusually well. They anticipated needs and moods. Hawke used this to hound as often as she did to help, but the skill was the same. Neither ever truly relaxed, even when they seemed to. He could read it in the way their sharp eyes scanned the Hanged Man for the tenth time in a single night. Or in the fact that when they drummed their fingers, the beat was like a march. Unspent energy quivered beneath the surface of their skin, as if their blood ran hotter than it should.

They both cared for others. Deeply.  

Elinor was slow to trust, but once it began, her affection grew quickly. Gradually, she took each little bird that her sister dragged home under her wing. Himself included. She invited them to dinner when she thought they might be hungry, and concocted herbal potions with the copper still she’d inherited for them to use in the field. Elinor was the reason that Norah had a standing order to place a pitcher of water outside Isabela’s rooms each morning. And it was Elinor who accompanied Merrill to the market once a week, to buy groceries. The fresh linens on his bed and the half-stocked state of his kitchen were her doing, as well.

Hawke was less overt about it, but empathy still bled out of her when she wasn’t careful. The people she collected were all in need of something; she was determined to give it to them. Again, he acknowledged himself among that number. Her veneer of bravado could not hide the fact that she gave greater weight to her failures than her successes. One night, they’d found a bag of bones in a place where Hawke had been sure they’d find a living woman. Later, at the Hanged Man, she’d laughed twice as hard and drank twice as much. When she made a crude joke about the whole thing, the guardswoman had upbraided her, to Fenris’s surprise. Her humor was so obviously fake that he could see the guilt shining through the cracks.

Or perhaps he’d just learned to read her better than he’d thought.

All in all, the sisters were capable women. Impressive, even. They had both earned his admiration, in their own ways.

But it was not until he saw Hawke play her lute one night at Varric’s place that he realized how deep his admiration for one of them had started to run.

It was not rational. By all logic, he should prefer Elinor. Elinor was no mage. She did not babble incessantly, a parade of words and information falling from her mouth as they wandered the city or played Wicked Grace. She navigated the topic of his past carefully, as though one poorly-phrased comment would break him.

And yet, the few times he spent more than an hour alone with her, Fenris felt as though he wanted to rip off his own skin and mail it to Danarius himself. He would leave Gamlen’s hovel covered in bits of her misguided sympathy, her compassion clinging to him as surely as the dog hairs clung to his leather. It made a mad part of him want to frighten her, to snap and shake her by the shoulders, frail thing that she was. If his choices were fear or pity, he would choose fear every time.

Hawke, on the other hand--being around her was infuriating, at first. If he’d only seen her when they were out fighting, he would probably have never realized. She cracked jokes as she fought, as careless with her words as she was with her magic. She blindly trusted the word of apostates, time and time again. Fenris spent half the time questioning her every decision.

But then he saw her sing.

She picked at the lute with graceful fingers. Her voice was low and even, like a river in the night. He knew the song, but when Hawke sang the words, he found a clarity in them he’d never heard before. The light from the fireplace and the candles painted her skin in stark white and gold, and he was struck by how young she truly was. Her robes opened at the throat. Fenris traced her collarbone with his eyes before he caught himself, looking instead at the glass of wine in his hand.

The wine was the same color as her lips.

When he looked up, he realized that Varric had caught him staring. “She’s good, huh?” the dwarf said in a whisper, smirking.

Fenris looked at her again. “She is,” he said softly.

 

~~

 

In truth, he had already started to feel something for her. He just had not realized it. Hawke had been visiting him at the mansion for several months now, and he’d begun to recognize that there was a depth behind her rough exterior. The first time she came, she drank his wine, sat in his chair, and asked him questions that should have bothered him. Questions about Danarius, Seheron, his markings. He found the visit confusing, but not bothersome. Not like it was with Elinor.

The next time she visited, he was more relaxed. He discovered that he could offer his thoughts and opinions as readily as she shared hers. She respected them. Sometimes she would disagree, yes, but at least she accepted that they were _his_ opinions. Many of their acquaintances--many of the people he’d met south of the Imperium, people who’d never met a slave before--acted as though any original thought he might have was residual trauma--not an opinion formed in a free mind, but a scar, a mark that branded him a former slave. Hawke did not. She didn’t coddle him, like Merrill or Elinor. Nor did she treat him as a potential threat, like Carver. He could speak to her about his past with a detachment he did not feel, and he knew he would be heard.

To Hawke, he was simply a person with a past.

It was a strange comfort. She was a strange woman.

The third time she visited, it was after he’d seen her sing.  He was acutely aware of her that time, of the way her body moved. The way her hands gripped the bottle of wine they shared. The way she licked her stained lips to catch the final drops after drinking.

She told him about Lothering. She was uncharacteristically serious, a dark emotion brewing behind her face as she watched the fire in his room. The distant way she spoke of the village stirred something in him--a phantom nostalgia for a home he’d never had. Or at least, one he no longer remembered.

“Will you return?” he asked, watching her. “To Ferelden, I mean.”

“Elinor wants to.”

“And you?”

She paused for so long he thought she might not answer. “I’m not sure,” she admitted. “I did, but…. My father helped people, you know. Wherever we went, he helped people. And he lived here once. I think I feel a connection to him here.”

“But Ferelden was your home,” he said. Her eyes changed, or perhaps the light did, and he felt the urge to clarify. “You sound as if you were happy there.”

Hawke looked away, and wrapped her arms around herself. “I don’t think I’ve ever been happy,” she said in a quiet voice. It was as honest as he’d ever seen her. She shifted again, her blue eyes going to his. “What about you? For someone on the run, you’re surprisingly stationery.”

Fenris twisted the bottle against the table. “I will remain here until Danarius is dead.”

“And after?” Hawke asked. She took the bottle from him, her fingers brushing his. She took a long swig before handing it back.

“ _‘After’_ is a distraction,” he told her.

She shrugged. “You’ll have to think of _‘after’_ _some_ day, won’t you? In fact, I’d argue that having an _‘after’_ is as vital to your revenge as killing him.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that when you were in Minrathous, your life revolved around Danarius. What does your life revolve around now?”

Fenris narrowed his eyes. “It is not the same.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

“He holds no power over me here,” he said, sharper than he intended.

 _Liar_ , a voice whispered in his ear.

Hawke studied him. “No,” she said after a moment. “Of course not. I apologize. I was out of line.”

Fenris watched her, taking another sip. The bottle was still warm from her mouth. As he finished, he wiped his own mouth with his wrist. He had been brutally honest with her in the past, and she’d never made him feel out of line. He was struck by a sudden concern that he was not offering her the same fairness.

And he had to admit that there were grains of truth to what she’d said.

“You were not out of line,” he said. “Sometimes it is difficult for me to accept advice. But I will take yours to heart.”

Her smile of thanks was small, almost shy. She moved on to other topics before he could say more on the subject, but that smile lingered in his mind until she left.

That night, his mind kept floating back to her. To the brightness of her eyes in the firelight, glittering and amused. To the warmth of the glass bottle against his lips. These thoughts continued until he had to take himself in hand, something he had not done in a long time.

It was over quickly. He panted as came down, sorting through his thoughts on the matter. He knew nothing would come of it; she made no secret of her feelings for the abomination, of all people. And besides, he was in no place to offer anything to anyone.

But it was good to know he _could_ still feel desire, he supposed.

Hawke asked him to come to the Wounded Coast with her in the morning, and he agreed. When Carver began complaining, she caught his eye and rolled hers, grinning. Before he could stop himself, his lips had twitched and he returned her smile.

He began to wonder if this sort of life--if Kirkwall, and helping people, as Hawke did--could be his _‘after’._

It was a thought.

 

~~

 

Her moments of acumen aside, Hawke had an incredibly loose grasp on what was and was not a good idea. Fenris did not base this conclusion on her treatment of her fellow apostates alone. He based it on the number of times she’d bet the remainder of her coin when she had a particularly weak hand. And on her tendency to treat combat as if she were a warrior, diving into the center of a fight, with only a slim enchanted robe as armor. And on how she used magic indiscriminately--almost casually--among strangers, making no attempt to be discreet.

Were he honest with himself, even his own presence in her life was a poor choice. He was no threat to _her,_ but he could not deny the temptation to throw the blood mage and the abomination at the feet of Meredith Stannard. Her fondness for them-- _more than fondness in one case,_ he thought, an unpleasant weight forming in his stomach--was the thing that stayed his hand.

Then there was the Bone Pit.

“You did _what?”_ Varric asked at Wicked Grace night that week, his eyebrows nearly jumping off his head.

Hawke shrugged. “Hubert needed a business partner. I offered to help.”

“The Bone Pit,” the dwarf choked. “You _bought_ the Bone Pit.”

“Just half of it.”

“To clarify, we are talking about the same Bone Pit, right?” he asked. “The supposedly cursed mine, filled with dead people and criminals, situated several miles away from the city, on top of a creepy mountain?”

Anders gave him a wry smile. “And you didn’t even mention the dragon.”

“The dragon is gone,” Hawke pointed out.

“The _dragons_ , you mean,” Aveline said. “The _dragons are_ gone. Plural.”

Hawkes snorted. “Oh, please. Those little guys barely counted. They were tiny! Miniscule! No bigger than Dashwood!”

“Tiny? One of them bit a chunk out of me!” Carver exclaimed. “I nearly lost my arm!”

“He did nearly lose an arm,” Anders said. “You know, a thank you would have been nice.”

“Not to mention they _spit fire,”_ Carver added.

Anders pitched his voice higher. “ _‘Thank you ever so much, Anders, for saving my arm.’”_ He returned his voice to normal. “Not a problem, Carver! Always happy to help a friend.”

Varric turned to Elinor. “I’m assuming your lack of reaction means you already knew about this.”

“Yes,” Elinor said, frowning at her cards. “Believe me. We had a nice, long chat about it last night.” She played a Sword and picked from the pile of cards in front of her. “I saw the contract. Unfortunately, it’s rock solid.”

Varric leaned back, giving Hawke his most patronizing stare. “You know, as an interested party in your _other_ major business venture, I’m not going to lie. This makes me a little nervous about your finances.”

“Don’t worry,” Hawke said, shrugging. “We’re making plenty of money doing jobs around the city. And buying the Pit hasn’t cost me anything.”

 _“Yet,_ ” Varric said.

“It’s a done deal, Varric,” Hawke said. “I just need to round up the workers who were scared away by the--.” She paused, unwilling to give Varric the smallest win, as always. “Incident.”

“By which she means the dragon incident,” Anders told the table at large. “The incident with the dragon.”

“Yes, thank you, Anders,” she said, glaring.

“ _Yawn_ ,” the pirate interrupted, putting her mug down with a thud that made Merrill jump. _“Really._ Why does anyone care? Let Hawke have her little Boner Pit.”

Carver, Hawke and Varric all laughed. Even Fenris felt his lip twitch a fraction. Aveline rolled her eyes, Elinor choked into her mug, and Anders snorted.

“It’s the _Bone Pit_ ,” Hawke said.

“Well, frankly, I couldn’t care less if I tried,” Isabela said, tossing her cards down. “I fold.” She kicked a boot on the table leaning back. “There are more interesting things to discuss. Like the festival in Hightown tomorrow. I _hear_ they’re going to have Antivan dancers.”

“Tomorrow?” Hawke said cautiously. She gave Isabela a significant look. “Are you sure you’re free tomorrow?”

Isabela looked confused. “Fairly sure.”

“Really?” Hawke asked, her gaze growing more intense.

Isabela tilted her head, pursing her full lips. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“She’s talking about Feynriel,” Merrill said. “The boy in the alienage. You promised to help us.”

Hawke’s face went carefully blank at that, a flash of panic quickly buried.

Fenris narrowed his eyes. “What boy?” he asked, though he already suspected he knew the answer.

Merrill blinked, her mouth dropping into a circle. “Oh,” she said softly.

Hawke failed to school her expression into something casual. “Just a job we picked up in the alienage.” She looked at the table. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Normal stuff.”

“An apostate,” Fenris guessed. Hawke didn’t deny it, drawing circles on the table with her fingers. He leaned forward. “And you are assisting him?”

“Here we go,” Carver muttered under his breath.

“He’s missing,” Hawke said. “We’re not hiding him from the Circle, if that’s what you think.”

“Do you expect me to believe that will remain true once you do find him?”

Hawke held up a palm. “Hand to the Maker, Fenris, we’re just trying to help. His own mother wants to give him to the templars. She doesn’t know where he is.”

Fenris ‘ _pah_ ’ed his disbelief, looking back at his cards.

“Don’t worry, Fenris,” Merrill assured him, touching the table between them as if to calm him. “We’re working _with_ the templars this time, and--”

As Merrill spoke, Hawke sunk lower in her chair, pressing her hand to her face and squeezing her eyes shut. Anders, Carver, and Elinor all snapped their heads up to look at her.  

 _“Templars,_ Hawke?” Elinor asked.

Hawke shot Merrill a pointed look under her hand. The elf suddenly seemed fascinated by her cards. “Oh. I’ll just… stop talking,” she mumbled.

Hawke turned back to Elinor. _“A_ templar,” she said. “Singular. Someone we know.”

“Not the knight-captain again, I hope,” Carver said darkly. “I don’t know how long you can pull off that fighting stick thing with him.”

“No, not Cullen. It’s Thrask. It’s fine.” Elinor and Carver relaxed a little, though Anders remained tense. “And yes. We are sharing information. Given that I am _new_ to the investigation, and that Ser Thrask was already in the alienage with a _plethora_ of details when we arrived, I thought the safety of a lost child was more important than pretending not to know a man who is _well_ aware that I am a mage.”

“And once the boy knows you’re a mage,” Anders said. “And his mother puts him in the Gallows. What then?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Isabela said, rolling her eyes. “And I thought the Bone Pit chatter was bad. Look at you all! Hawke’s a grown woman. Let her make her own damn decisions and mind your own business.”

 _“Thank you,”_ Hawke said emphatically.

“I’m sorry,” Elinor said. “We just worry.”

“I know,” Isabela said with a shudder. “It’s disgusting. Now is anyone going to call?”

There were a couple of grumbles, but Carver and Anders dropped a coin in the center of the table, and Varric pushed his cards away, folding.

Fenris scowled, frustrated. He was not always the best at expressing himself. He did not know how to explain to Hawke that she was a rarity. She believed everyone deserved a chance, mage or no, but the vast majority of the world were simply not good people. The state of Thedas as a whole was enough to prove that.

The impulse to harm ran deep in _all_ of their blood, whether dwarf, or elf, or human. Give a man power, and in most cases, he would use that power to subject others to his will. That was something Fenris wished Hawke could understand.

As he watched her over his cards, however, he was grateful that it was a lesson she had not yet learned.

 

~~

 

Fenris could have told the dwarf named Jarvis that he suspected no Arishok would willingly give away secrets of the Qun, but Jarvis did not seem like the kind of person who would listen. So he followed Hawke to the Wounded Coast instead, and helped her kill a cave full of Tal-Vashoth.

They ended up in front of the Arishok, with Jarvis. There was something familiar about being there, thoughts of Seheron swirling in his mind. Hawke stepped forward to speak, and Fenris felt a trickle of concern. She had no experience dealing with the Qun.

So he stepped forward instead. _“Arishokost,”_ he said. _“Maraas shokra. Anaan esaam Qun.”_

He felt more than saw Hawke give him a sidelong glance of surprise. The Arishok, too, seemed unused to hearing Qunlat from those who did not follow the Qun. Hawke recovered quickly, and with Fenris’s help, led negotiations. Fenris was correct, it appeared; there had never been a deal.

Under the heavy glare of the Arishok, the dwarf paid them anyway.

As they left, Hawke kept pace with Fenris. “You speak Qunari,” she said, surprised.

“Qunlat,” he said.

“Qunlat,” she echoed. She tilted her head at him. “From Seheron?”

“Yes.”

“You must know a lot about their culture.”

“Some,” he replied.

She nodded thoughtfully. “Could you teach me?”

Fenris slowed and looked at her. “Why?”

“The Arishok must be here for a reason,” she explained. “I’d like to find out why. If I can offer my services to him, in some way--”

“He will not require your services,” Fenris interrupted.

She gave him a thin smile. “For now,” she said. “But things might change. I’d like him to know he has someone to talk to in this city. It might make him open up a little.” Fenris doubted it, and let that show in his stare. “Look. You help me with this, and I’ll owe you a favor. How’s that?”

He knew the favor was irrelevant. He suspected that Hawke would do almost anything for him, if asked, whether she owed him or not. It was simply her nature. That reminder, and not her offer of a favor, forced his hand.

“Very well,” he said.

 

~~

  


The night Ketojan died, Hawke visited his mansion again. She’d already had something to drink, he could tell by the brightness of her eyes and the flush on her cheeks. He opened a bottle of wine at her request anyway.

Somehow, he drank most of the first bottle. And somehow, she convinced him to open another. And somehow, they ended up against the wall together, inches apart, the bottle of wine between them. She leaned her head against his shoulder, and he swallowed heavily. The point of contact between them burned, even through the haze of the alcohol.

“Carver thinks you hate me, you know,” she told him, her voice slightly slurred.

Fenris scoffed. “I do not hate you.”

“And Merrill thinks you have a crush on me.”

“Ridiculous,” Fenris said, though he felt ill at how close to the mark that hit.

“Isabela thinks you just want to sleep with me,” she went on, shifting closer.

His mouth went dry. She placed a hand on his thigh. A shock went through his body. His eyes widened and landed on her hand. She turned her body to look up at him.

“So?” she murmured, almost at his ear. “What do you think? Tell me.”

It was the closest anyone had been to him since--he derailed that train of thought and focused on the present. Part of him wanted to push her away, to snap at her. Another part… did not.

“Tell me,” she said again, and now her hand was moving up his thigh. He realized suddenly that she would feel his reaction to her if she got much higher and before he could second guess himself, he grabbed her wrist.

“Enough,” he said in a low voice. Hawke froze. He closed his eyes. “I… think you have had too much to drink.”

For a moment she was silent. Then she pulled away. “I'm sorry,” she said, sounding sincere and…. Maker, was she _hurt?_ He looked up sharply, but she was getting to her feet, was gathering her things. She was walking toward the door. It was all happening too fast for his spinning head.

“Hawke--,” he began.

“It's fine,” she said, throwing him half a smile. “I misread the situation. I thought we could have a little fun, that's all. But you're right, we are far too drunk for that.” She chuckled. “Goodnight Fenris.”

He could not reply.

And for weeks, months, _years_ afterwards, when he found himself hard or in need of release, he would take his cock in hand and close his eyes, remembering the hot breath of her words on his ears.

_Tell me._

In his fantasies, he did not tell her. He answered her by showing, by kissing her lips, by biting her neck, by pulling her armor off, piece by piece. He told her by tasting her, by making her quiver and shake and scream his name. He showed her by finding himself lost in her heat and tightness.

But that only stated him part way. Somewhere along the way, he began to imagine the same breathy whisper, as his lips kissed her cheek and throat and jaw gently. As he traced his hands over the body he wanted so much.

_I love you._

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we've got all five mains from _Sense & Sensibility_ lined up! 
> 
> Thanks for reading :D


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